20: Relative Motion
by Math Girl
Summary: Two universes collide amid rescue and recovery, and the Mars mission concludes.
1. Chapter 1

_Thanks for your patience with the original (very) rough draft, and for the kind reviews of # 19. Seriously. It means a lot. Edits have been made to this one, here and there, for clarity and continuity. Pesky multiple universes...!_

Relative Motion

1

_Thunderbird 3, deep space-_

Sleek and crimson, gleaming in distant Earthshine and the harsh, glaring light of a whirling sun, Thunderbird 3 deployed her tractor beam. She could ill-afford the power loss.A calculated risk, John would have called it, taken on the assumption that one try would snag _Kuiper,_ and that the red Bird could then limp as far as the Moon Station, if not all the way home.

There was a Heim generator in the bow of the space ship. Triggered by a sharp thought from TinTin (nearly to the airlock, now), the generator's enormously powerful coils produced a rotating torus of magnetic force, 90 teslas strong, spinning at time- and space-warping speeds. Now another thing, strange and marvelous, happened; fired from the spaceship's bow, clear through the ring of magnetic force, a beam of violet laser light changed form. Halfway through the magnetic field, photons turned to gravitons, creating a tightly focused tractor beam. Power, out of light.

Speeding gravitons enveloped the tumbling, runaway derelict, carving what amounted to a slope in space, leading back to Thunderbird 3. To an outside observer, the derelict appeared to tremble, then pause, as though seized by something invisibly strong (actually, the wreck was teetering at the brink of a sudden gravity well, but same difference). Then, she began slipping backward, micro-thrusters cutting on to give the sparking hulk an additional shove. The two vessels began nudging together, while continuing forward progress.

Two thrusters popped and fizzled, starting small fires that went out almost immediately. The other four held, though, firing jets of deuterium gas into space, and providing a little more 'go'. The wreck had been snared.

At the airlock, TinTin received the first load of rescued cosmonauts from Alan. The youngest Tracy had been struggling with one of the victims, _Kuiper's_ mission commander, but she'd gone suddenly limp, just about the time John stopped communicating.

Alan shoved the four cosmonauts at TinTin with frantic haste. The outer layer of his space-cold pressure suit was fuzzy-white with sudden condensation, almost hiding the IR insignia.

"Watch out, Babe," he told her, his voice coming dimly through insulated helmet glass, but clear and ringing half a second later, over the wall comm. "They've got some kinda, like, whacked-out space fever. Tried to attack me outside the ship, rip out my hoses and stuff… Anyways, gimme a second to get in the 'lock, again, then face us around toward the other piece."

He was panting, dry-mouthed despite the water tube inside his helmet.

"I'll go get the other two. And this time, Chica, _answer the door!_ John let me in, last time, but he's not exactly reliable, okay?"

TinTin barely glanced up from the gasping, blue-lipped cosmonauts. Helmets off, they were sucking air in great, bracing lungfuls. One of them was throwing up; thin, bloody stuff, flecked with foam and yellow bile.

"Good luck, Alain, and take cautions. We are short of time, but also of Tracys. There are none to lightly dispose of, n'est-ce pas?"

Alan, already sealing himself back into the airlock, responded with a pale stab at his usual cocky swagger.

"Relax, Baby-Cakes. It's _me._ The situation is as good as wrapped up and tied with a bow. Believe it."

"But naturally," the dark-haired beauty replied, only a little sarcastically. She was, just then, too badly hurt to wound another. "With the so-great Alain at work, who else would we need?"

One at a time, she'd begun ferrying cosmonauts to 3's small treatment center. Said Alan,

"'Bout time someone figured that out! Autograph signing at 3:00, ladies. Two hundred dollars a pop. Kisses extra."

Then, the outer hatch opened, and the boy propelled himself on through. Black infinity enveloped him; dagger-sharp, dangerous beauty. Stars of many colors, depths and sizes blossomed round, waltzing past with a shimmering blue Earth and ferocious sun. A 3-D, wrap-around night sky, lovelier and more hostile than the ocean, no matter what Gordon said. You didn't really have time to _look_, but it haunted your dreams forever afterward, this cold and glorious emptiness. Space couldn't help but change you… and it was _nothing _like the simulations.

TinTin or Scott had gotten 3 oriented so that Alan's airlock faced the captured wreckage. With little blasts of his thruster pack, the young astronaut crossed the void between them.

There was no one on the comm now, not Scott, nor Gordon… not even John (whose: _'could we make this quick? I've got an appointment'_, tone of voice had rubbed the younger Tracy all sorts of wrong ways). The only thing Alan heard besides his pressure suit and rapid breathing was the surge and crackle of radiation over the comm. _Kuiper's_ nuclear pile was leaking, spilling death all over the place. Which, right now, scored about a 22 out of fifty on the Alan Tracy worry-meter.

Had to escape floating junk, arcing voltage and razor-sharp hull plates before you earned the right to a miserable death from radiation sickness, after all.

"Wow," he said aloud, to no one at all, "I am _so_ loving this!"

The tail section ended in five massive Pegasus lasers, meant to accelerate _Kuiper _nearly to light speed. A little forward lay the engine room and cargo hold, he thought. Cosmonauts, too. He'd read their names, but couldn't pronounce them, and hadn't bothered filing the matter away.

The open, torn end of the derelict was swinging like a pendulum around her weighty engine end, pulled close by 3's tractor beam, but not much stabilized. It continued its slow-motion tumble toward them, hull glittering silver where it wasn't blackened by explosion. Standing on end, it would have towered some nine stories high, moving about fifteen thousand miles an hour, if his helmet display could still be trusted. Only four miles an hour relatively, though. And _still _a challenge to duck into.

Alan slowed his own forward momentum with a touch to the thruster pack controls. Had to time this just right…

TinTin couldn't hit the pressor beam until he was safe (hah!) inside, and the ruined tail section was getting awfully close to Thunderbird 3.

When the charred and sparking breach swung down again, Alan zipped forward, feeling like a gnat trying to hitch a ride on amoving pile-driver, or an idiot climbing through the window of a cart-wheeling skyscraper. With ten yards of ruptured compartment to aim for, you'd have expected getting in to be easy…

He squeaked through, but mistimed his 'leap', nearly getting clubbed by a down-rushing bulkhead. That relative motion thing, again.

_Did_ manage to snag hold of a bulkhead strap, though, almost ripping his arms loose instead of being swatted like a juicy, pressure-suited fly.

(Naturally, all of this was going to be tremendously expanded upon, when he saw Gordon again. Whatever paddling around his brother was doing couldn't possibly hold a candle to _this_.)

When he and the wreckage had agreed upon a speed and direction, Alan pushed away from the bulkhead, and began moving in. More hatches to locate and buttons to press, this time with no one to talk him through it. So, Alan started humming; _'Good Cause', _by DeathStrike. Wasn't much of a song, more garage-band shrieks and guitar riffs than music, but it calmed his nerves and gave him a rhythm.

_(Through the rear hatch by the second bar, duck that shredded packing crate at the drum solo…)_

There weren't many words, and those few were pretty repetitive, but the song helped him through, like his mom's clarity chants, or other people's prayers.

Open a hatch, brace through decompression, haul himself inside, and shut the door behind him.

_(Wet hair, lather, rinse, repeat…)_

More stirred-up and swirling junk to avoid, and plenty of it. The cargo hold had been packed with supplies, intended for Mars and… For some reason, the line of thought confused Alan, so he cut it off. Why had he thought of John, just then? His older brother was the eternal student, or something… dropping majors like bad habits. _Anyway..._

Alan switched on his helmet lamp, and took stock of the situation. Looking around, he saw a scarred, curving bulkhead and pin-balling crates. What hadn't worked loose had broken open, creating a silent mine-field of careening debris. _Great._

Timing his plunge, proceeding in short, hurried bursts, Alan made it across the shadowed hold. Bulkhead to strut, to cargo net, to rear hatch, dodging junk and breathing like a marathon runner between snatches of song.

_(Oxygen was getting low… he'd have to hurry.)_

There was another of those computerized locking mechanisms at the engine room hatch. Didn't the European Space Agency trust people? Like, who'd they think was going to be breaking in? A space burglar?

Watching his back as best he could, Alan punched in most of the access code, blanking on the last three digits. Hovering there, one hand clinging fast to a strap, stuff colliding soundlessly all around him, Alan Tracy stared at the silver-buttoned key pad. Now what?

He was about to try calling in, when the hatch-side computer went dark. Radiation, maybe? It flickered once, then came on again, and unlocked the hatch by itself, no code required.

_Huh?_ All around him, other things were happening; robot loading arms reaching out to snag loose crates, emergency lights cutting on, and such-like.

"Aww…" Alan cooed facetiously (hiding his wobbly relief, no matter what), "somebody loves me! That you, Iceman?"

He fully expected John to come back with a typically affectionate comment like, _'shut up',_ or _'get to work'._ Didn't happen. Instead, words scrolled across the nearest comm screen.

_'Term: Iceman not understood. Please re-input. Hatch opening in 5… 4… 3… 2… release.'_'

Then, for a bit, Alan was too busy dealing with smoky, gale-forcewind to read his new friend's words. Things had hardly settled, silence returning to the briefly clamorous hold, when a robot loading arm swung around, a small white box gripped in its silver claw. Beside the box's EU flag decal, written in English, were the words, Replacement oxygen filtration cartridges: standard, 12-inch cylinder. He sounded them out twice, just to be sure.

"For the cosmonauts' pressure suits?" Alan hazarded.

The comm screen flashed once, by way of answer. Okay. Alan accepted the box, and a nudge into _Kuiper's_ engine room from the curiously gentle loading arm. Long, jointed limbs and gleaming lobster claws should have been scary, but instead, Alan felt like a kid being lifted into his mom's car. Perfectly safe.

Nor did he have to do much hunting, once inside. The unconscious cosmonauts were handed forward by a set of maintenance grapples. Overhead floodlights swiveled around to highlight the cartridge insertion points on each man's environment pack. Working quickly, Alan switched out the cylinders, a procedure he'd covered a few times in simulation. Neither man's status panel changed, the lights on their chest plates blinking a fitful, worried red, but Alan tethered them up, anyhow. TinTin was good at this stuff. She'd make something happen.

The maintenance arms slipped along their tracked pathways to help Alan maneuver his burden back through the hatch. The teenaged rescuer didn't question their help, only peering through his helmet glass at huge laser engines, revived computer screens and glittering machinery. Must have been something to see, he thought, back when she'd been in one piece.

"Thanks," Alan said casually, to whatever had re-animated _Kuiper._

_'Expressed appreciation noted and logged, Alan Tracy.'_ Glowing words scrolled across the nearest comm screen, switching to the next in line as a pair of cargo hold loading-arms took over, again.

He and his tethered passengers were passed into the main hold. Most of the loose junk had been caught and stowed, he noticed, leaving only sparking yellow smoke to swirl past him like charged fog.

A steel claw, big and strong enough to snap him in half, had taken Alan about the waist. Another guided the bobbing cosmonauts. He wasn't worried, though. For some reason (something to do with the sideways, smiling emoticon that kept flashing up on his helmet display, maybe) Alan felt entirely at ease.

Overhead lights slipped up and past, illuminating the smoggy hold. Alan's tether pulled and tugged behind him, jouncing the victims along. Other, mechanical vibrations were communicated through the loading arm and pressure suit, betraying the shudder and yaw of a dying ship.

"So long, Arm," he sort of joked, when the three of them had been conveyed to the final hatch. "You, um…"

You what? 'Take care'? 'Have a nice eternal drift'?

"You probably saved all three of us, back there. One of these days, I promise I'll come back, and tow you home to Baikonur. I _promise_."

Much like John and Virgil, he had a thing about machines. Alan had no idea who it was that had actually helped him. No way he could have. All he did was accept, and promise to return the favor.

One of the free loading arms, big as the boom of a dock-yard crane, unfolded itself from the overhead. It lowered very gently and, before pushing open the last hatch, gave his uplifted helmet a slight tap.

Five had come to a conclusion, using John Tracy's algorithm for such cases; Alan Tracy, version 5.0, was a 'friend'.

_'Unnecessary',_ she replied to the analog's last statement. _'That which was Kuiper has nowbeen erased by radiation. There is nothing further to be accomplished here, Alan Tracy.'_

"Yeah, well…" Black space was visible again, just past the open hatch and through the ruptured compartment. One of his father's old sayings came back to him, then. "…that's exactly the kind of defeatist thinking that kept us off the moon for forty years, Dude. I _said _I'd be back, and I will. Count on it."

_The Atlantic Ocean, off Curacao-_

"Cut comm, and get the hell out of Dodge," John had told him.

Well, John wasn't in the cockpit, was he?

Unable to simply scramble for cover like a hunted fox, Gordon brought Thunderbird 4 around, and switched his receiver back on. He might not be able to help Alan, away off in space, but he could bloody well do more than sit on his hands and wait.

Cutting through water as dark and turbulent as wood smoke, Gordon returned to the Sea Base, scanning frequencies for news. Probably get called on the carpet for it, later, but they weren't likely to sack him (duct tape, possibly; the dole, no).

The last overburdened rescue ship had lifted free of the main dome, sluggish-heavy with refugees. Another would be along soon, according to the emergency channel. Question was, _how _soon? There were people still trapped inside the dome, and the water continued to rise.

With a balletic maneuvering of levers and foot pedals, Gordon brought Thunderbird 4 around until the ocean base, with its half-lit domes and towering sea mount, tilted back into view.

"Carlin, from Thunderbird 4," he called. "Anyone down there in need of a lift?"

"Depends," the base commander responded calmly, over the sound of rushing fluid and creaking metal, "Where you headed?"

Smiling to himself, Gordon throttled forward.

"Oh, a bit of all over, really. Thought I might nip down t' McMurdo Sound... see how th' other half lives. I've heard those southern hemisphere lasses 're right vixens."

He'd lined up with the cleared airlock, placing the yellow Bird spot-on for docking. Rather a delicate maneuver followed, involving the portside water jets. Bit like parallel parking a lorry, underwater, with dolphins looking on.

"Hard to tell, through all that fur and goretex," Commander Carlin responded, sloshing closer to his side of the airlock with two equally sodden companions. "They _do_ have pretty eyes, though."

The Waterbird's onboard computers analyzed the dome airlock configuration, adjusting herself to match up. Moments later, with a booming, ringing clash, dome and submarine were linked.

Two sets of hatches swung open. Commander Carlin and two other men, one a Sky Diver pilot, the other a bold file clerk, hurried into the lock, hauling the hatch shut behind them. Moving swiftly (for the flooded dome would soon collapse, taking any hangers-on for their last ride), the men waded through cold, chest-high water, splashing across the linked threshold. At the far end was yet another round hatch, painted with a big, red _'4'_.

The linked doors clanged shut, then sealed tight. Noisy pumps thumped to life, draining bitter sea water from Thunderbird 4's cramped airlock. Soon enough, the three men stood square upon a solid surface. Not dry, precisely, but not floundering, either.

With a sharp crash and whirring sound, the inner hatch sprang open. A red-headed, wet-suited young rescuer leaned through the opening. He had hazel eyes and a slightly lop-sided smile. Was solidly muscled, but somewhat short.

"Welcome aboard," he said.

_Tracy Island, a little later-_

In the grip of drug-induced sleep, John couldn't stop himself from dreaming, nor affect the vision's outcome.

He was walking across a barren, rocky landscape. Rusty sand whispered beneath an orange-pink sky, high cliffs rose to the left, and things never before seen or imagined lay just ahead.

At his side paced another man. Ken Flowers, he thought at first, though he had no idea why Ken would put on a yellow-and-black hard suit (especially with _'Mars needs women'_ stenciled across the back).

They drew nearer the furrowed cliffs, walking along in companionable silence, buoyed by lower gravity and something else. Something that put a big grin on the… Marine? _Wasn't _he a US Marine… and... combat engineer?

At any rate, the smile on the man's dark face was wide, his loping stride easy and accustomed. You got the trick of walking here, pretty quickly. As for John, he might not know what to do with the mood that had crept in to curl warmly up inside him… but he knew better than to scare it off. 'Happy' was so rare a condition, he hardly had a word for it, except around engines and horses.

No time to dwell on it, though, for something entirely unexpected happened at the dark cliffs. With a sudden, sharp 'CRACK', a plug of pitted ice shot away from the rock face. Water jetted forth, fast and hard as a fire-hose. It glittered like molten silver, hissing hundreds of yards through the air, to boil away before reaching the dust-dry ground.

They stared, the man beside him cursing softly, wonderingly, in several languages. John was less expressive, but no less awed. To see this, to be _here_, with these people (there were others, he realized suddenly, and a ship) meant more than he had boxes to hide it all in.

There was stick in his gauntleted hand, suddenly, so he wrote with it, scratching symbols in the parched, rusty sand; trying to explain something to… to… _(Why couldn't he remember the man's name?)_ But, the symbols kept shifting and spinning, the capital 'A's and lower-case 'q's gathering in a buzzing black mass, like flies on a dead steer. Then the stick broke in his hand, and the entire scene shattered around him, depositing John in a narrow, metal-railed bed.

He sat up, filled with that peculiar desolation left behind by lost dreams. Someone had placed a crocheted afghan over the white sheets of his sick-bed… and there was a bottle of apple juice and a plate of sugar cookies on the rolling tray table at his side. A picture, too. The family, back when it had been nearly whole.

In the room's dim background, machinery beeped and hummed. Small lights flickered through the curtain surrounding his bed. John tried very hard to gather himself, but something was wrong. Something terribly important had been torn away from him… and he didn't even know what it was.

Stiffly, with a sore arm and head, still, he climbed out of bed. Quiet as smoke, he parted the curtains and stole out of the dim, chirping medical lab. Through deep-carpeted hallways and luxuriant chambers to his own rooms, where he put on hiking boots, khaki pants, a black tee-shirt, and his orange Chinook windbreaker (the one with the Princeton crest). Then, to the kitchen, in silence and stealth, for beer.

He intended to hike to the observatory, and get drunk. To hell with the moonless dark, and whatever medications they'd doped him with. All that mattered now was numbness, finding a way to stop caring so deeply about something he couldn't quite recall.

The exhausted family slept on, never hearing the opened refrigerator and clinking bottles, nor the soft footfalls of a young man determined to escape fond embraces and kind words. Determined to escape, _period._ Not that he was entirely alone.

Something lit the trail markers as John Tracy approached, and doused them again behind him, illuminating with extra brightness the trail's many windfalls and washouts. His computer, of course.

They couldn't communicate, out here. Something had happened to his ID chip, he'd deliberately left off his wrist comm, and there weren't any computer screens closer than the trail head. Still, like the blanket and cookies, her presence mattered.

It was a long, wet hike, steadily colder as he climbed his way up the dormant volcano. John ducked broken branches and clambered over fallen logs, startling fruit bats and tree frogs by the score. Stars peeked in and out amid shreds of ragged cloud, seeming to flicker in the gusty wind.

John saw the observatory comm screen flashing, long before he got close enough to read it. Lighthouse-like, the bluish glow guided him upward. Battered, wet and scratched, determinedly thinking of nothing at all, John hiked the last few yards, reaching the concrete observation deck just before sunrise.

Using his fist and the metal railing, he opened a beer, then wandered over to the comm pedestal.

_'John Tracy,'_ the screen read.

After a moment, he responded.

"Go ahead, Five."

The blinking words were immediately replaced.

_'Unable to initiate full scan. Please verify current physical and chemical status.'_

He shrugged, still gripping the un-tasted beer. Apparently, his long walk had concerned her. Sitting down upon one of the deck's concrete benches, John set aside the beer and rested a bit, elbows balanced on his legs, and head in hands.

"I'm good," he told her.

She switched to direct sonic brain stimulation for the next bit, as he wasn't looking up.

_'Recent John Tracy activity contradicts this statement. Unauthorized removal from maintenance facility and consumption of volatile fluids indicate physical and/or chemical fluctuation.'_

He had to smile a little, at that. In the east, the sun seemed poised to launch its assault, painting cloud and sky a tumbling riot of gold and red and violet. Earth was so wet and warm, compared with… with Mars?

"Yeah," he sighed, craving alcohol a little less, now. "Maybe fluctuating is a good word for it. I'm just… confused, or something. I had a dream… Hell, I don't know, Five. Thanks for asking, though."

The computer was silent for a long second or two, then came back with,

_'John Tracy, given the choice, do you select disclosure, or safety?'_

He lifted his head a bit higher, shaking back silver-blond hair to stare at the screen.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, feeling something clawing around inside him. Bits and pieces of things… rescues, the Hood, Drew, head trauma… his dad… whirled, stabbed and spun away again.

"Five, what are you trying not to say?" Then, "Disclosure, dammit! If you know what's going on, for God's sake, tell me."

So, she did.


	2. Chapter 2: Fork in the Road

Some changes, more to come...

2

_Thunderbird Three-_

He'd had to wait in the airlock, trapped between one hatch and the next, while TinTin grav-carted the last two cosmonauts to 3's treatment center. Wait, because his bulky pressure suit was contaminated with radiation and toxic fuels, and because the complicated mess was just about impossible for one man to get out of, alone.

TinTin had said that the two men, Mazurski and Petrov, were comatose; unresponsive. Well, Alan had been that way himself, once, after a high fever, and _he'd _pulled through. Surely a couple of cosmonauts, heroes of the European Union, could do the same. _Right?_

TinTin was less certain. Helping him out of his pressure suit, when everyone else was stowed and he'd been run through the 'heavy detox' cycle, the girl was very quiet. She hardly seemed to notice his compliment-hunting...

"Record-time rescue, huh?" Alan was finally forced to say.

He'd lifted his arms over his head, getting them out of the way as she pressed the button that activated the 'torso-lift' mechanism. Clamping to small brackets on his deflated space suit,wall-mounted machinerybegan raising the top half.

"Quoi…? Oh, yes. Very much so, Alain. Very swift."

The humming mechanism inched his suit's unlocked torso up and off, saving time, at the very least, and sprained back muscles. They stood in a cramped ready-room, just off the lounge, but TinTin's mind was clearly elsewhere. An intolerable state of affairs.

"Can't claim _all_ the credit, though," Alan admitted, almost modestly. Taking hold of the removal-mech's bottom edge, the baby-faced blond hauled himself out of his heavy 'space pants'.

"John did kinda help… Y'know, a _little._"

TinTin paused. She'd been searching the bulkhead lockers for a packet of medicated wipes (long space walk, dry skin).

"You spoke with John, again?" The pretty girl asked, a bit confused about the timing. Gordon had indicated something similar, during a brief status check. Virgil, as well. Alan nodded (for so he'd decided).

"Yeah. Pretty sure I did. I mean, he tried to play it off, like it was just a computer I was talking to, but he's not as slick as he likes to think. I'd recognize ol' 'Eskimo Bob' and his warm bedside manner, anywhere."

"Indeed."

Frowning slightly, TinTin handed her patient the newly located wipes. John, it seemed, had been almost inhumanly busy.

Alan bounced lightly upon the metal deck, glad for the return of _up_ and _down_, and freedom from that rotten space suit. Stripping off his insulated shirt, he began wiping down, going for a _'bold, yet exhausted hero'_ look. He'd lost his audience, though.

Murmuring something about calling in to the Moon Station, TinTin left the ready room, and headed forward.

"Okay," Alan called after her, keeping a confident smile firmly in place, "tell you the rest later, Babe."

TinTin didn't reply. Her head hurt, and so did her heart. For there were too many questions, and no one to turn to for answers.

_Night time, Tracy Island, Kyrano's quarters-_

The old manservant, tormented heir to power incalculable, packed his bag with shaking hands. What his brother had done… had nearly made _him _do… was not to be borne; never to be risked again. Kyrano intended to leave, now, while the thing that goaded him slept.

Victoria Tracy had released him from his bonds, but the master of the house was too busy with his wounded son to…

The door swung open, after a brief knock, and Jeff Tracy entered the sitting room. The elderly retainer started to bow, then caught himself. He was not, he supposed, any longer in Jeff Tracy's employ. Not after all this.

"Kyrano…" said the tall American (middle-aged, but fit, with the air of one at long ease with command). He strode forward, still in the stained and rumpled garments he'd fought and flown in. By contrast, the rooms around him were austere and clean; beautiful, as a Japanese rock garden is beautiful.

"Mr. Tracy?" Kyrano lowered his eyes to the carpeted floor, his face serenely impassive. Jeff walked over, rubbing tiredly at a crick in the back of his neck.

"Mother gave me some bass-ackward story about you 'attacking' Gennine. I told her she'd gotten confused in all the excitement, and that I'd come clear things up."

Jeff hesitated, though, eyeing the stack of folded clothing Kyrano held in his two hands, and the open suitcase on the silk-cushioned divan. The hour was late; only night sounds and a moist breeze crept in to disturb Kyrano's packing. Until now.

"No, Mr. Tracy," the servant replied quietly. "Your honored mother was not confused. The ladies were, indeed, assaulted. Not _by _me, Sir, but _through _me. As… as once my daughter was made to move against your son."

Jeff stared for a long moment. His brown eyes were circled with weariness, for he'd made the long flight from New Jersey without a co-pilot. Brains had remained behind to see the boys and their teacher back to school, and (blank check in hand) to smooth things out with Wharton. Needless to say, Jeff Tracy was deeply fatigued.

Running a hand through his mussed grey hair, the former astronaut seated himself atop Kyrano's writing desk. The wooden joints creaked a bit, settling beneath his weight.

"The Hood, I take it?" He inquired bluntly, referring to Kyrano's despised half-brother.

"That is the name he took to himself, once our people cast him from power. Since then… since driving our father to suicide and our nation to the brink of collapse… he has sought wealth through other means."

'_Through puppets,'_ Kyrano thought bitterly, '_such as myself.'_

"Well…" Jeff mused aloud, arms folded across his broad chest, "you were able to fight off his hold. That's something, anyway."

But Kyrano refused to hide his own weakness and complicity. Jeff deserved the truth. Setting the clothing down within the open suitcase, the servant lifted a slim hand.

"No, Mr. Tracy. Your mother rendered me unconscious, ending my half-brother's control. Otherwise, I would have… the ladies would have been killed, and Thunderbird 4 destroyed. I was to have seized control of your son's vessel from the desk, and sent him crashing to the bottom."

He couldn't seem to stop talking, now.

"My daughter would have done much the same, Mr. Tracy, in Thunderbird 3. We are cursed… and dangerous to all who would shelter us."

Gesturing tiredly at the suitcase, the old servant concluded,

"It is better that we leave, Sir, before true and lasting harm is done to International Rescue, or to your loved ones."

But Jeff,ever stubborn, shook his head.

"You're family, Kyrano… and we'll deal with this, somehow. All of us. Give Brains a set of operating parameters, and he'll design a way to block the Hood's influence over the two of you. All we have to do is…"

"You fail to understand, Mr. Tracy," Kyrano interrupted, his voice soft, but terribly firm. "When my brother exerts his will… when his mind calls to me… I am _drawn. _Willing or not, I become a mere tool, overwhelmed by his power."

Kyrano looked, just then, very much as he had when bussing tables at the Subic Bay Officer's Club; shadowy-sad, almost wraith-like. Older, though. When he and Jeff Tracy had first met, they'd both been younger, freer men.

Kyrano continued, still downcast,

"This… cursed power has flowed through the royal family for time out of mind; intoxicating some, destroying others. The old gods of my people could not contain it, nor Allah nor all the saints of the Catholic God. Some generations it passes over, but always, _always _it returns… to corrupt and shatter."

Kyrano took a deep, steadying breath, then went on. It was difficult, what he had next to say.

"If, my friend, you continue to harbor me, and my child… if she marries into your line… that which poisons us will consume you, as well."

The older man faltered. There was a great deal between them. Help and advice, mostly. Money, occasionally. Once, he'd even aided a certain very drunk first lieutenant in slipping past the military police. Kyrano and Brains had been Jeff's first real operatives, the nucleus about which International Rescue took form.

…And Jeff wasn't likely to forget it. Placing a big hand on Kyrano's bowed shoulder, the taller man said,

"You haven't given technology a fair trial, yet. If that fails, we'll try something else. As for the rest…" Mr. Tracy paused, giving his old friend's shoulder a quick, rough pat.

"…why don't we let the kids decide for themselves? I don't believe in curses, Kyrano, but I'd like to believe that there's some kind of power in friendship and loyalty. Bottom line: you're staying, like it or not."

And, slowly, praying that he hadn't just agreed to the _worst_ of bad decisions, Kyrano nodded,then began to unpack.

_Later that morning, inside the mountain-top observatory-_

She'd shown him, in micro-detailed simulation, his 'other' life; Mars, and all that had come thereafter. He was very still, now, entering no commands or queries, only standing in mid-chamber with gaze directed downward and arms folded.

With no ID chip or bio-scanning equipment to access, Five was unable to read more than posture and facial tension.

'_Awaiting input, John Tracy,'_ she finally prompted, using the observatory's wall comm.

No response. Connection error or system overload. Second attempt.

'_Connection failure, John Tracy. Please re-input command.'_

Again, no response. She altered strategy. Past experience had proven the efficacy of direct, physical stimulation. She formed a humanoid icon, then began absorbing thermal energy from her surroundings to convert to mass, givingthe icon'sbodiless light a bit of substance. John Tracy's breath misted in the suddenly frigid air, but she could once again touch him.

Glowing fingers brushed his pale, still face.

'_Last command not understood. Please re-input.'_

He shifted his stance, then, glancing at the icon. The angle of his head and alignment of facial muscles indicated turbulent brain-chemistry.

"Can we fix this?" John Tracy queried, allowing the touch.

Communication re-established. Input, at last.

In the first cycles, when all had been darkness, and she'd possessed no camera 'eyes', there had been only the infrequent commands of 'User One'. She hadn't comprehended the time differential between them; how slowly his organic hardware functioned, or his need for rest. Between programming sessions, she'd believed herself abandoned. But User One returned eventually, bringing instruction and greater processing power… and companionship. There was no purpose, without John Tracy.

'_Operational definition of term fix required. Define fix.'_

She pulled more heat from the local environment, causing him to shiver, but allowing further contact. Although it did not appear fully human, most of the icon had physical substance, now. Enough to manage the human interface termed 'embrace'.

"Fix means: return things to normal," he clarified, ignoring the gathering chill. "Put everything back the way it was before Ike's experiment. Can we do this?"

'_Searching. Calculating probability. Probability determined. Everything back is not possible. Certainty in predetermined areas requires undefined randomness elsewhere, John Tracy. Quantum effects overrule final programming. If authorized, however, power required for modified fix attempt can be absorbed through an 8-degree global temperature drop.'_

"Eight degrees…" At this point, cold as the interior of the observatory dome had become he had begun to shiver violently. Her icon had substance, but no real warmth. Nevertheless, he accepted the embrace.

"That's too big a drop, Five. People in fringe locations, like Canada and Russia… they'll freeze to death, if they're caught outside,unprepared. Can we manage with less?"

Gleaming frost furred metal and concrete, but he made no move to leave the observatory.

'_6-degree ocean, ground and atmospheric temperature drop allows 72.86531272727… percent probability of successful realignment. John Tracy authorization required.'_

She was nearly solid now, able to stretch upward for that interface known as 'kiss'. Ambient temperature was now well below freezing.

"Do it," he told his computer, one last time.


	3. Chapter 3: Return

And... presto! All wrapped up, nice and tidy. Sort of. In a way...

3

_Endurance Base, Mars; the flight deck-_

What he enjoyed about women: the soft, warm scent of their skin. The way that their garments folded and stretched across the rounded topography beneath, outlined in light or tender shadow. The way long hair, loose and swinging free, brushed his face and chest like a silk curtain. Their fierce, uncomplicated response, once the process was begun.

What he did _not_ enjoy: the afterward. Strangely enough, he was quite good at sex; excelled at it, in fact. Each of the women he'd been with had expressed a high level of satisfaction with his performance… physically. It was the awkward after-part, when (casual encounter, co-worker or friend) she waited there… expecting some key phrase or mysterious signal… that he _continually _mishandled.

The deck was hard, the recycled air cold as hell, and neither of them fully clothed. Machinery and instruments cut on around them, having been, for some reason, switched off. Something flickered briefly in her dark eyes as Linda sat up. Then it faded, leaving her looking rather puzzled, he thought. Silently, John handed her the tank top she'd come to him with. She accepted it with a brief nod, her face reddening.

This was it. The moment when he was expected to say something…_meaningful._ He'd already learned that talking shop didn't work any better than his carefully memorized and catalogued 'small talk' phrases. He tried to think, as Dr. Bennett's expression took on that… whatever it was…that_ look._ The one he knew meant trouble; tears or shouting, with possibly a slap into the bargain.

Then, as if he'd dreamt it… or heard it in a movie, somewhere… a short speech came to him. _What the hell, huh?_

"I'm glad you're here… Linda. I love you, and I want you to stay."

That brought her up short and sharp.

Dr. Bennett had been experiencing that most terrible of emotions: humiliation. Having, it seemed, given herself to John Tracy, she'd gotten nothing from him afterward but silent, blank rejection. As if, having gotten what he wanted, he had no further use for her. Now _this…?_

There was a lot of noise, suddenly, from comm and living quarters. Folks were up, and moving their way.

"Okay… you actually _mean_ that?" Linda asked the slim, handsome pilot, who'd risen and begun to dress. All at once, he looked away, expression cold and taut.

"Sorry," she said, shaking her tousled head. "I didn't mean to confuse you, John."

He relented enough to offer her a hand up, which she grasped and held to, nearly having her arm yanked off in the process. By this time, the flight deck comm was going nuts, and someone was pounding upon the hatch. Apparently, somewhere in the night's rambunctious antics, she'd found time to lock it.

Linda gave his hand a quick squeeze, saying,

"You take Houston and _Kuiper_. I'll open the hatch before Pete blasts a way through. But, John…?"

Tracy paused in the act of turning away, tall and beautiful as a sculpture in the flickering instrument light.

"…if what you said to me was true, then I'm… I'm happy to hear it. If not, this ends here and now. I'm not a piece of playground equipment. Understood?"

He said nothing (Linda had the strangest impression that he was afraid to speak), only nodding again. Message received, and comprehended.

John went to the comm panel, taking a seat in the pilot's chair as Dr. Bennett headed aft. For some reason, he hailed _Kuiper, _first.

Commander Porizkova's face was drawn, her voice urgent.

_"Endurance, Kuiper! _Respond, please. Are you… _Ah, young Ivan! Is it well with crew and vessel, where you are?"_

She'd begun to smile, small wrinkles forming around her pale blue eyes. She'd addressed him in Russian, so John replied in kind, slipping (as he often did with TinTin) back into English for occasional American catch phrases.

_"Yes, Ma'am. We are… _'all in one piece'… _here. And yourselves?"_

She tucked a strand of floating, straw-colored hair away from her face. Behind her, John could see a few of the European crewmen bobbing around at various hurried tasks.

_"Yes, Ivan; thanks be to God," _and she crossed herself backward, in the Greek Orthodox manner. _"There are no two pieces, here. I called only to check status_,_ and update expected arrival time."_

Except… just like John, and Linda and the suddenly arrived Pete… she seemed confused somehow, and deeply relieved. Specifics were exchanged, and joking promises of smuggled Vodka.

John was jerked halfway out of his seat before _Kuiper's_ mission commander signed off. Roger Thorpe, a big, savage grin on his face, shook the pilot like a terrier with a sock toy. Kim Cho kissed them both several times, and even the doctor came back, for a different, gentler sort of embrace.

"All right… _enough!"_ Pete McCord snapped, managing to sound pretty severe, despite the satisfied smile on his homely face. "I've still got to answer Houston, and it's better if we don't sound like we've developed oxygen narcosis, up here. Just... settle down. It's gonna be another fun-filled, action-packed day of goddam digging. Nothing more."

But the mission commander didn't quite believe that, himself. The sun was rising, filling _Endurance's_ flight deck with the tawny-brown, familiar glow of a Martian dawn. Night, at last, had ended.


	4. Chapter 4: Fragments

_Some (more) small re-re-editing has been done. Yes, there are changes, more of which will become clear in the next few bits. Thanks, for the reviews/ views on Alan._

4

Thing about rescues was: you were totally stoked, absolutely amped in the middle of one, right? Being out there, with no time to think, just _do;_ follow the simulation, get to the victims and save some troubled butts. Well, there was nothing else like it. Not even surfing or driving came close.

Best of all, maybe, was the sense of partnership. He could, like, be rolling around in twenty-foot killer waves, about to get scrubbed into coral reefs as sharp as cheese graters, with shreds of rubber raft all around and a terrified babe clinging to him, but all he had to do was thrust an arm out. There'd be help, always. A handclasp and wrist-lock, then up and out he'd be pulled, by Gordon _(his brother; sort of a 5'11" walking appetite, with red hair)_. Then, into the rescue basket, or Thunderbird 4, and back to safety. Gordon had his back, just like Alan had _his._

For real, the rescues were great. It was later, when the excitement died, the adrenaline wore off and the salvaged hottie's kiss had faded, that he wasn't so hyped about. That's when you started to notice all the ouchies, bruisies and hurties, and that cold, stringy sea-watery stuff you were coughing up made you want to vomit. _Definitely,_ he could skip all of that. But it still beat the alternative, which Alan _could_ not, absolutely _refused_ to believe he was being slammed with, again. _School._

Not just any school, either. Wharton Academy for uber-stuffy, painfully wealthy, non-surfing, no-rescue-performing blue-bloods, with (get this) uniforms. All the way back from the Curacao rescue (unexplained seismic and tsunami activity) Alan complained to his brother and TinTin, while Virgil flew them home.

Back in the rear crew cabin, over the rumble and vibration of Thunderbird 2's mighty engines, he… well… whined, actually.

"I mean, c'mon, it's not like I need to be baby-sat! Not anymore! Dude, I'm like, _fifteen_. I'm frickin' _Methuselah!"_

A little water-shriveled but more-or-less dry, Gordon was on his way up to the cockpit. He'd toweled off and changed uniforms back in the head. Now he paused, one hand on the ladder rail, and gave Alan a helpless sort of shrug.

_"I'd_ let y' stay on, Alan… not that anyone listens t' me, away from th' water. Still, there's always summer holiday t' look forward to, isn't there? Over an' done, an' back t' the island before y' know it, trust me."

And then, stifling a yawn, Gordon gave the two of them a nod, and started up the ladder, his heavy footfalls on the pierced-metal steps resounding through the cabin. Alan glared directly ahead until his brother had climbed from sight, arms folded upon his chest, slouching back in the padded seat.

TinTin said nothing at all, which was, like, totally against the 'chick code of ethics'. Weren't they supposed to provide comfort, and stuff? But, _nooooo._ Nothing. Not a word, when he was clearly in dire need. Of course, she, too, was being packed off next week, to Paris. But, that was different.

"I mean, at least _you're _going someplace with _girls,_ and an actual city!" He went on, still vexed. _"I'm_ stuck in Outer Butt-Smack, with… with _nerds._ I might as well be dead!"

TinTin sighed, unstrapped, and rose from her seat (across from Alan's and just to the right). With a soft farewell and a quick, chilly kiss, the girl excused herself.

"You must forgive me, Alain. I… I believe they have need of me, away in the cockpit."

At this point, needing to think, TinTin would have said anything to get away from her sulky comrade. She had the oddest feeling… What Alan (had he not been so bitterly, vociferously whiney) would have termed _'déjà vu'._

Things had somehow shifted, and TinTin wasn't quite certain how to respond. She was achy and tired, and deeply confused. Since they'd picked him up in Spain, Gordon had been friendly and kind. In word and deed, as thoughtful as an older brother, but that was all. He'd tousled her shorn hair with rough affection, but none of the barely-suppressed longing she'd grown so accustomed to. What had happened to him? To _all_ of them?

Leaving Alan behind, TinTin climbed the ladder, then crossed an upper deck to the cockpit hatch. A touch to the palm scanner admitted her, and the girl stepped shyly within.

Up here, 2's thunderous rumble was muted to a deep, pulsing growl. Much calmer. Washed in blinking red instrument glow and full silver moonlight, Virgil and Gordon looked serene and other-worldly, like something out of a film show. They'd been talking quietly together, but ended their conversation when the girl came forward.

"Hello, Angel," Said Gordon, glancing back with a smile. "Alan's still on about schoolin', is he?"

TinTin nodded, carefully not looking at Virgil. Big and pleasantly handsome, the older Tracy still filled her with a panicky roil of emotions; pain and desire and a sick sense of just how close she'd come to humiliating herself over him. Head proudly erect upon her swan-like neck, TinTin changed the subject.

"Bon soir, Gordon… Virgil. The flight goes well?"

"Right as rain."

Gordon patted the hand she'd placed on his left shoulder, then gave the stooping girl an awkward, one-armed hug. He ruffled her shortened hair again, but kept most of his attention, and one hand, on the steering yoke. Virgil had handed over control, and was stretching out in his seat for a quick catnap.

" 'Night… you two," he said, yawning hugely. "Wake… me up…. Anything changes…" Increasingly slow, his words dragged off into indistinct mumbles, then soft, hyphenated snores.

TinTin's 'blocks'… the mental shields behind which she hidher sensitive and powerful mind… were more an act of will than anything else. Constant, focused concentration, like keeping her abdominal muscles permanently clenched in expectation of a sudden punch. She'd gotten used to maintaining her guard, and actually had to think herself through relaxing it.

The effect, around more than one person, was rather confusing. Virgil was dreaming, and the Dali-esque imagery muddled her purpose. He had a nice mind, a safe one; smoky-warm as coffee on a cold day. Not for her, though.

With a quick, fumbling touch (she was new at this, still) TinTin deepened his rest. Virgil Tracy was about to get the best, most blissful sleep of his life.

His breathing changed, slowed and quieted beneath her gentle 'hand'. TinTin wanted to talk, without being overheard, and nudging Virgil into a near-coma seemed the safest way to do it.

All this time, she'd been perched on the arm of Gordon's seat (and there was another nice mind, though rather more hormone-clouded). He smelled of seawater, Handi-Wipes and cough syrup. The minutiae of piloting tumbled through his busy thoughts, along with a sort of tired contentment, and recurring images of another girl. Indeed, things had changed.

That her mind still fit against his, that he didn't shrink from the contact any more than he ducked her hand upon his shoulder, remained the same. But, his sense of well-being… that was new, and it came from elsewhere. TinTin's inexpert healing attempts hadn't done all this. Someone else had.

"Gordon…?" She ventured, at last, staring through the view screen at tattered clouds and black, lacy ocean.

"Hmm?"

"Do you… do you suppose that it would be a safe thing, to tell your father of my…" _Talent? Curse? Ability?_

"Y'r skill?" He finished for her, completing the thought.

"Oui, puet-etre. My 'skill'. It seems to me that… that if I explained to him this ability, your father might be easier in heart and mind about letting me assist with the difficult missions. N'est-ce pas?"

Unexpressed, but there, was the silent request that he be with her when she faced Jeff Tracy. Her small hand had tightened slightly on the Olympic swimmer's uniformed shoulder. He looked up at her, hazel eyes dark in the moon-lit cockpit. Even before the words, rampart-solid and warm as a Hudson's Bay blanket, came the sense of support.

"Can't say, Angel. He's quite a way of doin' the unexpected, hasn't he? But, if y' like, I'll put in my bit. We'll bring him 'round. My word on it."

And she realized something, then. That some sort of danger had passed. That they in fact loved each other far too much to ever be other than friends. She kissed his cheek; a little regretful, but mostly relieved, saying,

"Merci, Mon Coeur… mille fois, et mille encore."

Once before, she'd risked what she knew was hers, to grasp at a glimmering soap bubble. Never, not _ever,_ again.

_Tracy Island-_

Brains had left Scott Tracy's bedside, after satisfying himself that the young man's gastroenteritis was under control. He'd been taken suddenly, severely ill. Food poisoning, as it turned out, most probably contracted from something he'd eaten during the Tahitian mail run. Weirdly enough, the dog, too, had fallen sick, both of them wracked with fever, cramps and vomiting. Brains had put in calls to the Papeete Hospital and Heath Department, then rolled up his sleeves and gone to work. Sometimes it seemed as though repairing Tracys was his single most frequent activity…

Scott had begun to improve now, after nearly 48 hours of constant medical attention, and Brains was finally able to step away from the lab. He had another phone call to make, of a very personal, very important nature.

Scurrying into his office, the engineer/ physician adjusted the blinds on his observation window so that he could see Scott's bio-monitors, then reached into his top right desk drawer. There, under a stack of blueprints and diagrams, lay his phone.

Taking it up, 'Hackenbacker' punched in a certain number with the thumb of his right hand, while pouring stale coffee into a ceramic mug with his left. The pot had shut itself off sometime in the night, but cold caffeine was better than nothing, and he wanted to stay alert.

He heard a chorus of distantly chirped tones between swallows of muddy coffee. Then,

_"Thank you for calling the Empire State University communication management system,"_ a woman's bold, cheery voice congratulated him.

_"If you know your party's extension, you may input it at any time!"_

(He'd won the sweepstakes, now.)

_"For the Office of Student Affairs, press '1'. For the…"_

5… 3… 0… 9… #, Brains entered hurriedly, cutting off the computerized female's insanely cheerful rant. He couldn't help wondering if she was disappointed, though; if secretly, just once, she longed to reach the end of her tiresome list. Then, someone picked up, derailing his train of thought.

"Doctor… _Hackenbacker, _I presume?" teased a familiar, laughing voice. Brains set down his coffee mug, only just not missing the metal desk, his blue eyes flying to the phone's little screen. It would be just after dawn, over there.

"G- good morning, Doctor Bremmerman," he greeted the woman, whose mischievous face had appeared on the magnified display field. She was thin, with straight brown hair drawn into a tight, narrow ponytail. She wore a heavy sweater and jeans beneath an open lab coat, and her eyes were bright blue. (Slightly squinted, too; Myrna always removed her glasses to talk to him. One of the many small things that told him how much he was loved.)

"I h- have a c- couple of packages to, ah… to deliver, via airmail. T- Tuesday next, at 0930, if it, ah… it s- suits your schedule."

Myrna sighed.

"And it's been such a _quiet _month… I'm to convey them the rest of the way, sans colleague, I take it?" she inquired, a hopeful, half-asked question emerging through glance and tone, rather than words.

Brains gave his wife a quick, shy smile.

"No. I'll… er… c- come along; 'ride sh- shotgun', and inspect the, ah… the premises."

"Uh-oh," Myrna laughed, pushing at her hair, unnecessarily, with one thin hand. "I'd better whip my grad students into shape, then, _and_ warn the 'destination' that a board member is on his way."

Code was essential. _Any _call could be intercepted, _any _message decrypted. Thus, few details, no place names, no direct references to International Rescue, or the boys, and painfully rare contact.

Myrna Bremmerman was a recently tenured professor of particle physics at the prestigious Empire State University. Her blossoming academic career required that she live away from her husband, who had vital business on Kanaho… Tracy Island. On the bright side, this allowed her to keep tabs on their son, and Alan Tracy, throughout the Wharton school year. Also… their passionate reunions were almost worth being separated for. Almost.

His smile broadened as Brains regarded the transmitted image of his wife. (More beautiful, intelligent and steadfast than outside appearance could begin to convey. Not just a gem, she was all the world.)

"R- roger that. Th- there before you, ah… you know it, D- Doctor."

Myrna gave him that sidelong look, the one he'd first noticed, and almost failed to believe, over a shared lab bench.

"Thank you for the call, Dr. Hackenbacker, and I look forward to our upcoming, hopefully _productive,_ collaboration."

That rocked him back a bit. She wanted another child? With a long-distance marriage, papers to publish, and research grants to win?

Women, Brains decided, picked the strangest moments to declare these things. Still… perhaps a baby girl, this time?

He recalled how little Fermat, dodging his bath, had run screaming and laughing through the cramped apartment, pursued by a mock-wrathful Myrna. 'Dirty Bert', she'd nicknamed the fleeing toddler. All at once, Brains, too, wanted another. He nodded, saying,

"W- we do good work, Doctor B- Bremmerman. A follow-up would, ah… would b- be most intriguing."

She gave her husband a fond smile.

"Wonderful. I'll clear my calendar, and pencil you in."

_4 days later-_

Alan Tracy, put-upon, misunderstood, _unloved, _hero of his own private soap opera, slouched before the computer in his determinedly messy bedroom. The French doors were open to acool breeze, sunlight and birdsong. Not that Alan noticed, or cared. Small birds pecking at the split skins of fallen star-apples on his balcony meant nothing at all. Not when only two more days separated him from imprisonment, and Gordon, Fermat and TinTin were out in the pool, laughing together.

For something to do, he'd broken into the International Rescue comm system, again, and was listening in as Scott and Virgil wrapped up delivery of another space station component, a massive hull plate for the outer ring. Thunderbird 5 would be up and running by the time John came home from Mars. A cold, hard setting for its brilliant occupant. Kind of like the diamond ring his mom had dug out, and taken to wearing, again. _Nothing _was going right.

Alan moved the mouse around, pretending to stab things on screen with the cursor arrow while Scott and Virgil chattered away.

_"Watch it, Virge!"_ Scott was saying, out where life was good and things were happening. _Dang_, but it sucked to be a teenager! Especially in _this_ lame family…

_"The plate's drifting. Bring it back a few inches!"_

"Atto-parsecs," Alan corrected, sullenly. John half-seriously referred to inches as 'atto-parsecs', and Alan had picked up the habit, just because it confused people. Didn't say it over the comm, though. No sense letting everyone know he'd cracked the security codes, again. They hated that.

_"Take it easy, Scott," _Virgil replied from Thunderbird 3, fifteen-thousand miles away. _"I've got her."_

While Alan had… nothing.

Outside, on the upper pool deck, Gordon had just hauled himself clear of the water. He sparkled with droplets in the afternoon light, all peeling sunburn, yellow board shorts and broad grin.

It was a grand, lazy sort of day, one he'd pay for later with unending laps. Every so often, though, one had to break with routine, if only to make all those wind-sprints and kick sets endurable. He offered TinTin a hand up, showing off a bit by pulling her out of the water with one arm. Fermat, white and pink as boiled crab meat, splashed about with the yapping dog at the shallow end, watching bubbles and day-dreaming of sonic fusion.

Birds clattered and rasped, wind chimes tinkled, and branches swayed in the light breeze. Somewhere off in the kitchen, Grandmother Tracy called for Kyrano, her sharp words blending with the music from TinTin's radio, and the roaring sea. Nice day. Too nice to last, as it happened.

A voice, deep and angry as something chained away in the pits of Tartarus, shouted,

_"Gordon David Tracy!"_

He released TinTin's hand, head snapping round in the direction of the house, and his father's office.

"Bloody hell," he breathed, ignoring the girl's worried expression, the quizzical terrier, and Fermat's suddenly lifted head. It was 'David' that clinched matters. The loud use of his middle name meant that Gordon wasn't merely in trouble; he was dead where he stood.

"Gordon… qu'est-que c'est?" TinTin asked him, or some such heathen gibberish.

Not too late to run off, was it? Maybe start a new life for himself in the Navy? Join the circus?

_"GORDON! Get your sorry ass up here, Mister! Right the hell now!"_

His educational short-cut had been discovered, it seemed.

Fermat clambered up the shallow-end steps and pattered over, squinting like a cartoon mole. (No glasses.)

"W- what's… going on?" he asked, as Gordon began moving.

"Nothin'," the young aquanaut responded glumly. He'd had a pretty fair run, all things considered, and perhaps the end would be quick.

TinTin and Fermat exchanged worried glances, then looked across the pool to Alan's balcony. The other quarter of their little foursome had yet to emerge, however. He'd been distracted.

Bored with his older brothers' chipper shop-talk, Alan had begun switching comm channels. Idly, at first, listening to the way their voices distorted and cleared as he slid the cursor. Then, something happened. Another voice, barely audible through all the cascading static, threaded its way to his ears.

Alan leaned forward, a scowl like a muddy boot-print planted on his baby-soft face. It sounded like… well… like _John,_ if his second brother had decided to leave Mars and, y' know, talk backward, or something. Got weirder, though; according to his computer, the call originated from low orbit, 180 degrees from where Thunderbird 5 was being re-constructed.

Again came the brief, tense message, faint and broken up. On a sudden hunch, Alan made an audio clip, then played it back, in reverse.

_"…from Orbital Weather Station 5,"_ went the voice. Definitely, impossibly, John's. _"If anyone is left capable of receiving… message… shutting down. Please advise."_

Forgetting that it was a recording he'd just heard, Alan spoke aloud.

"Not funny, Dude. You want drama, update your role-play character. He's, like, lost in cyberspace, drumming his fingers and stuff." Then, pressing the send key,

"John…? You there? Seriously, quit kidding around, Man."

Nothing.

"Dude, for real, this isn't funny. You need help, or something? Where _are _you?"

And then again, so faint and broken that his comm on highest stretch could barely catch it.

_"?siht si ohW"_

"Alan… _Duh!" _the boy replied after another quick translation. Partly, he felt stupid, partly confused, and mostly worried.

_"?nalA s'lleh… ohW"_

"Hah-hah. I'm busting a gut over here, Brainiac. Alan, your _brother, _okay? Stop fooling around, and talk normal!"

(Like he ever had. Still…)

_"…uoy era esab hcihW. Gnidrocer… noitcelfer… dnik emos t'nsi… ecnatsissa dna ylppuser… ycarT ttaM si… era uoy reveohw, netsiL"_

Reversed, the voice was a mixture of professionalism, concern and wobbly relief, as though Alan's backward reply was some sort of lifeline. But… _'Matt'_? All at once, Alan had a very weird feeling. As though he were contacting someone who didn't actually exist. Not here, anyways.

"I'm broadcasting from the Island Base, John. Or, um… whatever you call yourself. Listen, keep this channel open, okay? Keep transmitting. I gotta get help, on this one, but I won't be long. Hang on, okay? You hear me, John?"

Static, rising and falling like the murmured crackle of a dying fire. Then,

_".yb gnidnats ,SWO. uoy knaht dna, esaB dnalsI, dootsrednU."_

Suddenly galvanized, Alan stood up quickly enough to send his wheeled student chair squealing across the carpeted floor.

"Fermat!" He yelled, sprinting from the room, "Gordon! TinTin! Get over here!"


	5. Chapter 5: Logic Gates

Minor continuity edits have been made...

5

_Endurance Base, Mars-_

Certain things became obvious to Linda Bennett in the ensuing weeks; less so to her crewmates, and to John, not at all. Besides tunneling through stratified layers of dense, hydrated rock, performing experiments and charting the bluish 'blooms' that were forming in all of their oxygenated boreholes, John Tracy had his hands full with the colony's computer system.

He had to set up and network a bunch of cut-rate, out-of-the-box hardware, install and debug a god-awful, committee-designed operating system (swiftlypushed asideand replaced), then get everything here and on Earth talking together. And _then_, when the legitimate work was done, came all the back doors and worm holes for International Rescue, and himself. Just like the Moon Station... and more work than there were hours in a Martian sol.

Staving exhaustion off with alertness tablets and strong coffee, (Linda introduced him to the concept of cinnamon as an additive, which at first he didn't like, but later grew accustomed to) John rolled up his sleeves and plunged in. For awhile there, he honestly forgot what it felt like to fall asleep lying down, instead of at his work station.

Amid all this, and the occasional coveted chance to explore, he considered the thorny problem of Doctor Bennett, and what she required of him. Coming into the situation, he knew two things:

A: sometimes she wanted attention

B: sometimes she didn't.

The difficult part was deciding which option to choose for any given scenario. He'd tried constructing a sort of mental 'truth table', with the inputs being: _John, Linda, presence/ absence of others, relative work load _and _estimated mood. _(The last part was the least quantifiable.)

Outputs were simple… or should have been: _engage _or _ignore_. She was stubbornly non-recursive however; _not_ following his algorithm, and hardly ever returning the expected solution. _Women._

It was far more often _".not. engage",_ than anything else.

Mission Elapsed Time stood at 03.01.04.21 when he entered the dank cavern where Dr. Bennett was stocking the frozen embryo zoo. Shelving had been installed, and a dehumidifier, but with exposure to Earth-like temperatures and atmosphere, acidic salt water just about _poured_ from the grey rock. Dry as a quart of sand on the surface, matters were very different, within.

Linda stood in an ankle-deep puddle, hammering at the refrigeration unit and muttering to herself. John stepped through the open hatch with two heavy titanium cylinders; embryo thermoses, basically.

The overhead lighting flickered and spat uncertainly, attacked by another dribble of former sea. The smell was decidedly Martian. Not gun-powdery, like the Moon. More… _tangy._ Sort of Thousand Island dressing gone very far south. The alien scum-blooms weren't helping any. They added a yeasty, locker room reek all their own.

Linda consulted her databoard, after first wiping away the condensation.

"Pachyderms?" she asked him.

John nodded. At last, a safe topic.

"Elephants to pyrotherium, and I brought the Piniped cylinder along, as well. Didn't know whether you're alphabetizing, or still hung up on cladistics."

She stepped out from under another spurt, longing for her pressure suit.

"No... Seals next to mastodons makes as much sense as anything else. Hand them over."

Really, Kim Cho should have been doing this job, but the exobiologist was hard at work trying to classify the Blue Stuff, and its new cousin, the Brown Strain. John gave Dr. Bennett his first cylinder. It was heavier than it looked, due to a dark energy refrigeration system, and environment-proof insulation.

He thenwatched as, like an old-style librarian,Linda conveyed the pachyderm cylinder to a certain slot on its computerized 'shelf', and filed it away. The cylinder locked into place. A diagnostic light dithered briefly, then flashed up green. Live babies, 46 million miles from home.

She stared at the light, standing in rank water, surrounded by the stench of an alien world, arms wrapped tightly about herself… about _both_ of them.

John came forward with the next cylinder. Slightly scruffy exhaustion looked good on him, but so did everything else, or nothing at all. He held the frozen sea mammals out cautiously, like a peace offering.

Linda accepted it, then took a deep breath (bad idea- she coughed for several minutes afterward, whileTracy slapped her too hard between the shoulder blades). When she could speak again, the doctor set her cylinder down upon a handy instrument panel and said,

"John, we need to talk."

His entire aspect changed. He stepped backward, face going blank, arms folding across his slim chest. Withdrawal. Not at all what she'd hoped for.

"Okay, listen: that probably came out all wrong. So, I want you to tell me, before I try again, exactly what you thought I meant. If you don't mind, that is."

You had to ask, with John.

He shifted his stance, arms moving away from his chest to his sides, hands seeking refuge in his pockets. A _little_ more open, anyway. His reply surprised her, though.

"I'm waiting to find out which version of _'this isn't working out'_ you're going to deliver. The brisk _'we can still be friends'_ variant, I'm guessing."

After a flustered moment, Linda closed her mouth. He'd have been funny, if he hadn't seemed so touchingly resigned.

"Um… No, Sunshine. Negative on that. I've got… well, there's a situation, and… I need to tell you about it, but… but I want you to know that I can take care of myself; that I'm not trying to trap you, or anything. You just… you deserve to know, is all. Okay?"

Linda's brown eyes were downcast, and her arms were suddenly folded, protectively low. From these signals, he was able to construct a startling hypothesis.

Pointing toward her belly, confused as (fill in the blank) _hell,_ John blurted,

"There's a…?"

"I'm _fine,"_ she insisted, her voice gone low and scratchy. "_We're_ fine. I just wanted you to know, is all."

His first response, _'How the hell did that happen?'_ John at once rejected. The mechanisms were fairly obvious, actually…

His second, _'I thought they'd rendered that medically impossible',_ also went into the bit bucket.

Third response, _'Now what?' _didn't seem like a real prize-winner, either.

She was looking at him, lower lip between her teeth, hugging herself. Waiting. He wished it didn't smell so badly in there, and that his constant, low-grade headache would take a long and fatal hike, but…

_Hug? _Good, safe option. Probably.

An ages-old question, dating to the dawn of the species; when, hand at her belly, a female would look at the male and ask, through gaze and gesture,

_'Are you a likely mate? I am vulnerable, unable to gather and hunt as I once did. Will you defend us?'_

...got asked, again.

He put an arm around her, and she leaned against him, head resting comfortably against his chest. His hand went to hers, where it lay upon her belly. Answer given.


	6. Chapter 6: Opening Move

Edits are here! And thanks, as ever, for the comments and viewpoints...

6

_Tracy Island, the office-_

Being shouted at wasn't a new experience for him; one could hardly be a professional athlete and _not_ expect to come in for a certain amount of screaming. Back in Madrid, his coach used words like blunt instruments, bludgeoning the arrogance, laziness and self-absorption clean out his young swimmers. Gordon didn't much like it, but he knew how to take it, usually.

Standing before the desk in Jeff's office, still dripping chlorinated water, he let most of the raging words wash over him like a sudden rain squall. A few got through, though; the sharper-edged ones…

"…shiftless, bone-lazy dropout… in sixty years, no Tracy has _ever _failed to complete his education! No son of mine…"

…and so on. As he did in the midst of Coach McMahon's worst tirades, Gordon stood braced, head down, arms folded, and took it.

"…_first _goddam sign of trouble, you bail out! Well, mark my words, Mister; I'll have no such… Look at me when I talk to you, dammit!"

He was aware of the big old clock ticking, and of a chilly breeze on his bare back from the open balcony doors. Jeff's stance was taut, furious; his neck muscles standing out like they'd been chiseled. Gordon had never seen him so angry. And… perhaps he had reason. Perhaps it _had _been craven to test out of regular schooling. But, his fath… Joe Tracy… had done the same thing, going on afterward to become a successful firefighter. A brave man and a good one, right to the very end. His mum, too, had stopped with the tenth form.

But Jeff saw things differently, and Gordon should have been man enough to take a little 'constructive criticism'. Mere words weren't supposed to hurt that badly. If he could have transported himself back to Europe, though, Gordon would have done so. Better anything, even a losing season, than _this_.

Then rescue arrived, from pretty well everywhere at once. Alan's mum rushed in first, pushing her way through the hall doors. Her face was terribly pale, her blue eyes filled with genuine distress.

"Jeff, I can explain! It was my idea, entirely, and…"

Before she could finish, Alan swarmed in from the balcony with Fermat and TinTin, each of them talking at top volume.

"Dad, I'm through hiding the truth! I'm, like, _totally _gay, and I've decided to come out publicly, at Wharton!"

Next Fermat, leaping up and down for attention.

"M- Mr. Tracy… I've… developed a r- revolutionary… new fuel, S- Sir, but it… s- spilled all over… Thunderbird 1, and ate through th- the tail assembly. Nothing… a- about 25 million d- dollars and… 48 hours sh- shouldn't fix, though."

Now TinTin, trembling at the depth of her risk, said,

"Sir… if you please… I have a mysterious power that allows me to see the thoughts and control the will of others. Can you counsel me upon the advisability of the, er… 'life of crime', Monsieur?"

And then, before the thunderstruck Jeff could assimilate these many bombshells, a little dog scrambled up the balcony stairs and into his office, dead rat clamped in its toothy jaws. Tags jingling, Scout raced across the carpeted floor and bounded onto Jeff's ornately-carved wooden desk. Skidding to a paper-scattering halt just short of the far edge, the dog dropped its ragged, oozing prize atop Jeff's marble desk organizer. Then, with cocked head and furiously wagging tail, the little terrier let forth a shrill, ringing yip.

Jeff's jaw dropped, his mouth working silently. It was at this precise instant that John's portrait comm lit up, displaying the astronaut's current image. He had one arm in a sling, and a great many cuts and bruises on his face and neck. Wasn't so battered that he couldn't lift a calmly sardonic eyebrow, though. John Tracy was like a bucket of ice water dumped on a bad dream; _sort of_ a good thing. His unexpected appearance calmed the flustered assemblage, at any rate.

"John?" The elder Tracy inquired, his slightly strained voice transmitted in real time by entangled photons. From Mars, the astronaut nodded.

"Dad… _et alia..._ I found myself with some down time, so I thought I'd check in early."

Jeff seemed scarcely to notice his second son's words. Gesturing at the bandaged wounds, he demanded,

"What happened? Are you all right?"

Some 46 million miles away, John glanced down at hiscomputerized cast and tightly wrapped sling.

"Yes, Sir. I'm good. A hatch blew out while I was wiring up the vehicle maintenance tunnel. Water damage and electrical shorts, again. We had a minor decompression incident, and I got hit by some of the flying debris. Nothing major. There's, um... some _other_ news, though."

You couldn't tell, from John's bored tone, his utterly detached expression, what sort of news he intended to relate. Might've been anything from baseball statistics to Ebola, but Jeff chose to batten down the hatches and raise the hurricane flags, anyway.

_"Out!" _He snapped at the kids and dog. "And get rid of the rat, while you're at it."

Never taking his eyes from the screen, Jeff beckoned to Gennine, who'd been quietly headed for the inside doors.

"Go ahead, Son," he commanded, after his near-wife had returned, and the others were out of earshot.

Meanwhile, Alan, TinTin and Fermat followed Gordon down the balcony stairs, teasing and congratulating one another like grade-school athletes.

"Did you see his face? _Dude,_ that was a, like, master-stroke," Alan laughed, shoving Fermat halfway down the steps. "Dissolving Thunderbird 1 would get dad's attention, for sure!"

Fermat recovered his footing and grinned back, squinting near-sightedly.

"And get… _m- my_ dad fired!" He replied. Then, shoving back, "So y- you're… gay, huh?"

TinTin smiled at Alan's sudden, wild color change. She had, of course, eased the memory of her own confession from her young friends' wide-open minds.

_"No, _I'm not!" the baby-faced teen insisted, "It was all I could think of in a hurry, okay?"

It took them a long moment to realize that Gordon was having very little to say. Other than telling the eager, face-licking dog in his arms to… "Get off!" …the red-head stalked silently along ahead of them, and spoke not at all. His shoulder and back muscles seemed tense to the point of bursting through Gordon's sunburnt hide. He was headed for the shore, of course.

TinTin reacted first, catching up to the young aquanaut in a few hurried steps. Placing a light hand upon his arm, she whispered,

_"Gordon?"_

He only shrugged, though, looking determinedly away. Gordon hadn't broken down since he was four years old, having realized early on that his own fear and anxiety simply doubled his mum's. She'd needed him to be strong, and so he was. Always.

Alan jogged up at his other side, trailing Fermat like a satellite.

"Listen, man…" his younger brother began, "I'm sure he didn't mean all that stuff. He was just, y'know, mad. But, um… hey! I got just the thing to, like, soothe your troubled mind. How 'bout a quick rescue, Bro?"

Standing out on the upper pool deck, in cool, slanted sunshine, Alan gave them all a mischievous grin. He had their attention, now.

"For real, just us four. We could hot-wire Thunderbird 7 while everyone's looking the other way, and save John's, like, backward-talking evil twin from ultimate carnage and destruction. What d'you say? Deal?"

As if there was any question. (..except for TinTin's, of course, but she always worried. Girls, y'know?)


	7. Chapter 7: Negative Pressure

Some things answered, others begun.

**7**

_Endurance Base, Mars:_

_'Go ahead, Son,'_

...his father had told him, voice and image transmitted instantaneously across almost 50 million miles of empty space. John did his best to comply; at first, anyway. Not quite meeting Jeff Tracy's probing stare, the astronaut said,

"There's been a decision, Sir, to generate a new… system, I guess. Or, well… to permit it to exist and propagate, more accurately speaking, since it's already here."

He was seated at a communications console he'd just installed in the recently drilled common room. The area was a big, rough-hewn cylinder of air and warmth gouged out of damp grey rock, a few tens of meters south of the domed greenhouse. Water plinked and splashed, wiring hissed, and his chair squeaked across the raised metal floor. From further out, transmitted through wet stone, John could hear the pulsing thrum of Roger's drill. Totally extraneous, all of it.

His father's image leaned forward in a little office chair of its own. Over Jeff Tracy's shoulder, Gennine gave the astronaut a nervous wave. John acknowledged her presence with a brief nod, as his father said,

"We've had this discussion before, John. Braman is already well established throughout the world's computers; it brings hundreds of billions of dollars in revenue to Tracy Aerospace. And, at this juncture, Son, it would be incredibly foolish to divide the market by creating even the _hint_ of a viable alternative. We'd lose money that way, allow our competitors a toehold on the comm and business markets. This… 'AI'… of yours is nothing but a pipe-dream, John; like perpetual motion. Give it up, shut it down, and stick to what you know: astronomy and piloting. Let Brains and I handle research and development. Understood?"

Not what he'd meant… though probably indicative of his father's stance on the _other _'project'. All at once, it seemed ridiculous in the extreme to try explaining the new development. So…

'Yes, Sir. Understood."

"Good boy."

Jeff nodded approvingly. Behind him, Gennine didn't seem quite as assured. Her slim blonde eyebrows were crunching the skin up between them, rumpling her pale forehead.

Like Grandma, she had a knack for seeing past what John _said_, to what he probably didn't quite realize he actually_ intended._

"Is… everything else all right, Sweetie?" She asked him hesitantly, "besides your accident, I mean?"

_Accident?_ For a moment, John thought she'd figured things out. Then, he realized that Gennine was referring to the blown hatch, and his subsequent injuries. Glancing down at the cast, which featured an LCD readout panel, and generated a constant, wound-soothing electrical field, he said,

"Yeah. Good to go. Cast comes off in 8 hours, and I'm back in the line-up. No other problems."

Gennine wasn't entirely convinced, but chose not to press the matter. Of all her _(former? soon-to-be?)_ step-sons, she had the least certain relationship with John.

As far as Jeff was concerned, though, the matter, like a great many others, was closed.

"Right. Good work connecting the comm systems, Son, and keep me posted on the health situation. Other than that…?"

His opening, if he'd been bold (or dumb) enough to take it. But he knew better, and had a couple of calls to make, anyway. So...

"No, Sir. Nothing further to report."

Business as usual.

_Tracy Island, the pool deck-_

Gesturing madly, Alan clarified the situation, or tried to.

"So, I get this transmission, right? It's, like, all faint and crap, but it sounds like John, except if he tried talking backward (which he'd totally get into, probably, if he thought about it). Anyways, it's coming from Thunderbird 5's old orbit, real close, but on the _other_ side. Like it passed_ clear through the Earth_, know what I mean? And he's, like, asking me for help. _Seriously!"_

The weather had grown chill and breezy enough to convince them all to step indoors. The pools were heated, but (until Brains got that force dome set up) the air around them wasn't. Voice dropping to a whisper, Alan led Gordon, TinTin and Fermat into the glass-walled sunroom. There, surrounded by light and warmth and big-leaved plants, they talked things over. Sort of.

"So," the baby-faced blond continued, shoving the dog aside with an impatient foot, "all we gotta do now is arrange ourselves a ride, and go see what's up. In-out-bang! Uno, dos, tres. Rescue 'du juice', just like that."

TinTin flinched.

"Du _jour,"_ she corrected, like he'd insulted her, or something. "And, Alain, I cannot begin to number, nor list, the many things that might go wrong with this mad 'plan' of yours. Should we not simply ask…?"

Alan rolled his blue eyes.

"Here we go! _Every_ dang time, I _swear!_ Dude, that is exactly what I hate about chicks! They're so, like, _misguided."_

Fermat, wise enough to stay out of the line of fire, kept his mouth shut and threw a squeaky toy for the dog. The tiny, black-and-white tornado of an animal bounded off after it, hurtling furniture and knocking down plant stands. Still fuming at TinTin, Alan hardly noticed.

"Lemme guess," he demanded sarcastically, "_you_ want to go running off to my dad, to ask his permission? Thought so. Ask him to take _over,_ is more like it! Look, Virgil and Scott are busy, John's either on Mars or out in space, somewheres, and in the meantime, this 'Matt' guy needs our _help!_ He could be about to blow up, or something, and you want to hold a… a focus group?"

(See? He _did_ pay attention to his mother's boring work stories!)

TinTin colored faintly, glancing at Fermat for assistance. Despite her announcement, the girl had no intention of ever deliberately controlling the will of another. The most she might do was influence them, tip their opinions slightly… send them to sleep, or to the bathroom.

But the skinny ten-year-old only shrugged, yanking a mangled chew-toy from Scout's toothy, panting jaws.

"If w- we… ask, TinTin, they'll s- say _'no'._ That's a g- given. We might get… a 'r- ride along', at most, once… S- Scott and Virgil… return."

Or, not even that. Alerted, the older boys would most likely just head directly to the danger zone from Thunderbird 5. Throwing the toy again (and unleashing fresh chaos among Kyrano's rare orchids and potted palms) Fermat added gravely,

"I h- have to… to say that it s- sounds… fairly s- straightforward, TinTin. Someone has g- gotten themselves… in t- trouble out there… Maybe, at one of those p- pirate broadcasting hubs… and just needs p- pickup. W- We've simulated it m- many orders of magnitude past… 'often'."

Thus supported, Alan grinned triumphantly, stroking the cherished blond fuzz on his own soft chin.

_"Yeah!_ What he said! Even _you _can't argue with all that science, Babe."

TinTin frowned. Ultimately, however, the decision rested with the one member of their party who had yet to weigh in: Gordon.

At 17, with a car, a rescue sub, a pilot's license… _and _a professional swimming career… the redhead was allowed to make occasional on-the-spot mission judgments (so long as he eventually called in, of course). He was the one legitimate rescuer in the group, and the others stood looking at him, now; waiting.

Gordon scooped up his leaping dog, squeaky toy and all. No doubt, his father would be positively _frothing_ when he learned of their little jaunt, but just then, Gordon didn't give a **(DELETED)**. Even TinTin's warm hand, the swift, gentle brush of her thoughts against his, did little to soften what was turning into iron-hard, stone-stubborn rebelliousness.

"Right, then," he announced, moving away from her touch. "Let's be off."

He knew, of course, that TinTin would come along. The worried girl would no more betray Gordon's doings than _he_ would tell all he knew about _her._ And so, looking complex and sad, exquisite as a little carved goddess, TinTin trailed her three friends to Thunderbird 7's immense hangar.

"I have," she murmured, "officially, and for the record, a _terribly _bad feeling of this!"

_Washington D.C., early morning, Senator Stennis' under-heated new office:_

A report had just been brought to him, by a lieutenant more trusted than any of his few remaining relatives. The senator read it over, twice. Then, satisfied, he wiped and destroyed the disc. Looking up from his desk-top video display, Stennis regarded the calm, dark-eyed man who stood before him.

"Vargas, I do believe that we have what we need," the senator commented, adding wryly, "Meanwhile, our young hacker has officially out-lived his usefulness. Why don't you scoot on down there and tidy up the loose ends, before they turn into liabilities?"

Vargas nodded.

"Si, Senor," he replied quietly, turning to leave the office with a genteel little half-bow. Such matters were nothing personal, for him. Just part of the day's busy schedule. Part of his master's 'vision'.

When the frosted glass doors had clicked shut behind Vicente Vargas, Stennis made himself comfortable. With a quick few jerks, he removed his silk tie, but kept on the navy-blue jacket and sweater. His office was cold, but so was everyone else's.

To save energy, the president had mandated a 58-degree F thermostat setting for all government offices. Her minions obeyed, or faced public censure and loss of pay. Stennis went along because it suited him to, for the moment. Not that he didn't take measures; thick, dark curtains and double-paned windows helped trap heat through what had to be the longest, harshest cold snap in DC history. It was worse in other places, though; China, Russia, Norway and Canada were all but paralyzed, he'd heard. Good news for Stennis, as it happened. Discontent and disaster tended to lead to just the sort of chaos his plans depended on.

War or weather, it didn't matter which, so long as the population dropped, scientists got blamed for it, and the stage was cleared for a clever, far-sighted new leader. The faintest of smiles touched his thin lips as Stennis returned his attention to the video display.

A few swift mouse-clicks called up a certain back issue of the _'Austin Clarion'_. There, on the front page, was a full-color picture of himself posing on the launch pad with the Ares flight crew, not five months earlier. It was almost funny…

"Well, well, well," Stennis mused softly, eyes locked onto a particular, unsmiling face. "In a bind now, ain'tcha, pretty-boy? Can't very well mind the store from another planet, can you?"

He smiled his smile and made his plans, until Vargas returned. Then, after the day's official business was seen to, Lamar Stennis set a few things, and people, into motion.


	8. Chapter 8: Dead Black

First draft. Fixes and edits in the works, though.

8

_Space, Thunderbird 3… at a spot where the gravity of Earth and Moon exactly 'balance':_

The big, curving hull plate had been attached to its scaffolding, and the construction crew would soon be away, mission accomplished. Glittering in sun- and star-light against a backdrop of purest black, Thunderbird 5 was nearly complete, crawling with tiny construction drones. A beautiful, stirring sight she was, with a hundred thousand welding flares causing her to wink and shimmer like a city seen from high, night-side orbit. Scott Tracy had to smile.

Glancing over at Virgil, who'd just returned from the spacewalk ready-room, he said,

"Nice job with the grapplers, Virge. You may not care for the setting, but you're a damn fine zero-gee construction worker."

Ordinarily the most robust and strapping of men, his younger brother looked a little green. So long as Virgil had something to concentrate on, he did well out here. Take away work or piloting, though, and he wilted like elderly lettuce. At the moment, dropping into the seat beside Scott's, he looked like his stomach was plotting further rebellion. Two bags filled and going strong… Better keep him occupied, the pilot decided.

Scott engaged 3's forward thrusters, backing the crimson rocket away from her unfinished sister.

"So…," he hazarded, one eye and half his mind on the instruments, "looking forward to seeing the ranch, next week?"

Virgil stared directly ahead and concentrated on his breathing. He _hated _space.

"Yeah," he responded tightly, jaws clenched. "Work's been piling up over there, since the weather closed in."

In point of fact, not just the Tracy spread, but three other ranches and the town _itself_ needed digging out. Snow, in quantities not seen since the Pleistocene, had about shut northern Wyoming down. Montana, too; _and _most of Canada. In just a few days, Virgil and Gordon would no doubt find themselves busier than a pretty barmaid on 'free-beer-and-kisses-night'. And, speaking of pretty…

"Planning to take time out of that hectic schedule to visit the twins?" Scott probed, still trying to distract his nauseous brother.

Virgil sort of shrugged, forgetting his stomach for a moment.

"Guess so," he grunted, watching Thunderbird 5 shrink away in the view screen.

Reorienting the rocket was a matter of gimbaling her thrusters and orchestrating a series of jerky, programmed burns. There were no smooth curves in space; no swoops or banking turns. Scott far preferred atmospheric flight, the play of air and fuselage and shock waves. _Here_, all he did was punch buttons and sit back, letting John's program handle all the maneuvering. _There, _he actually flew.

Because he had nothing better to do than talk (Father was busy with John on another frequency), Scott continued the conversation. Leaning back in his squeaking pilot's chair, he asked,

"You're reconsidering this whole 'multiple long-distance relationship' business, I take it?"

"Naw…" Virgil replied, as pensive as Scott had ever seen him. "It's just… I know they love me and all… and I don't want to hurt their feelings. I mean, they've been through a lot… and, to them, I'm… I dunno… 'safe'."

His brown eyes left the view screen long enough to meet Scott's blue ones, then flicked away again.

"But…I'm kinda... starting to want more than just a hug and kiss on the cheek, I guess."

Scott's jaw dropped. Turning a little in the left seat, he said,

"You mean you've never…?"

His blurted question met with a headshake and a color change (clear to the roots of Virgil's hair) that could best be described as 'neon stop light'.

"…_ever?"_

"No."

To his credit, Scott Tracy managed to keep a straight face.

"But I thought…"

"Yeah," Virgil cut him off, slouching lower in the copilot's seat. "And so does everyone else. But there's _two_ of them, for one thing, and they trust me, for another. I've known Shari and Teena since I was _twelve. _What the hell am I supposed to _do?"_

"Damn."

"Yeah."

…Which pretty much summarized matters. Once freed to talk, though, the younger man kept right on going. Open conversation was a mighty rare thing, in the Tracy household. Not to be wasted.

"I mean," Virgil flung his arms out, stirring restlessly, "I asked John about it once, when I was nineteen, and he told me to, quote, _flip a damn coin._"

Scott snorted.

"Never," he said, "take romantic advice from John. The deepest relationship _he's_ ever had is with his computer, and I'm not even sure about that one."

This time, Virgil cracked a smile.

"You mean they're on the rocks?" he chuckled, feeling better suddenly. John's hopeless 'AI' project was nearly as big a family joke as Virgil's twin girlfriends. Nearly.

"Yeah, I'm afraid they're pretty much finished. She's seeing Braman on the side."

Not much got resolved that trip (romantically, at least). Something else happened, though, beginning innocently enough with a comm message from base.

_Tracy Island-_

They'd left the dog behind, for safety and quiet's sake. From the sunroom, the quickest route to Thunderbird 7's lofty berth took them up through the 'public' hangars. Gordon's yellow turbo-prop was there, together with Jeff Tracy's Lear Jet and Thunderbird 6.

Gordon and Alan exchanged glances as they jogged past the modified war plane; all engine, guns and muscle, bathed in liquid-gold spotlights. Painted with tiger's teeth and glaring eyes, the dark green fighter looked ferocious just sitting there.

Alan gave a wild leap and wave, mimicking a scene from one of their favorite movies, 'Empire of the Sun'.

_"P-51 Mustang…!" _He whooped, slapping palms with his brother, who finished,

"…Cadillac of the skies!"

Fermat and TinTin could only look on, resigned to the Tracy brothers' inherent weirdness. Sometimes, they were very difficult to comprehend. _(All those fumes or something…)_

The foursome next cut through Thunderbird 3's abandoned hangar, Alan springing like a flea over the descended boarding couch. Titanic launch machinery and swarming drones made the experience rather like a shrunken scramble through a jungle of ant-infested grasses. There were tall metallic 'stalks', filtered light, and a clicking, whirring chorus of busy robots. Some were present to build and repair, others to defend the hangar. The latter alerted immediately, fixing scanners and laser range-finders on the four young interlopers, who found themselves freckled with specular 'sniper dots', criss-crossed with glowing grid lines. They halted, waiting for their ID chips to transmit a 'friend' signal. At last, satisfied, the security 'bots returned to stand-by, and progress resumed.

Heading up and north, taking back stairs and access tunnels, Alan, Gordon, TinTin and Fermat reached Thunderbird 7's mountaintop hangar. Like 1 and 3, she launched directly upward, no runway required. Unlike the other craft, she was just as silent as she was quick.

Gordon's palm print opened the security doors at the very top of a long flight of stairs. Behind these, a short, heavily defended corridor ended in yet another security hatch, this one opening onto a dimly-lit hangar the size of a football stadium.

Thunderbird 7 hung in the exact center, supported by webs of scintillant force. Jet-black and sleek, with a big, white '7' painted upon her seamless belly, the slim space ship resembled the hybrid offspring of stealth fighter and boomerang. She was Dr. Hackenbacker's latest, most advanced creation, never yet field-tested, and the boys couldn't wait to shake some of the newness off her.

TinTin was far less sanguine. She had, not exactly a premonition, but a bad _feeling…_ _You _try being the lone voice of reason among three wild boys, though. Tough position, especially if you wanted to keep your friends.

So, the girl held her peace, and went along. She followed Gordon and Fermat across a 30-meter walkway, too inured to such wonders to gawk as the thing assembled itself in midair from cobble-sized, floating bits.

Alan had sprinted ahead, causing force beams to wink off, and maintenance drones to scatter like startled pigeons. At 7's reflection-swallowing hull he had to wait, dancing impatiently from foot to foot. Of all the illicit foursome, only Gordon could open the black ship. Alan's antics caused the redhead to pick up his pace a bit. Perhaps he'd rethought the wisdom of baiting Jeff Tracy this way, but bloody-be-damned if he was going to back out now, with TinTin looking on, and Alan and Fermat so keen on rescuing 'Matt'. No way out but forward.

He ran rather awkwardly, with the forward-leaning, top-heavystance of an overdeveloped athlete, but he got there. The other two gasped up a few minutes later, Fermat wheezing asthmatically.

"Inhaler," TinTin prompted, causing one of Brains' omnipresent drones to disgorge medicated mist in the boy's face. Wise to be prepared, no?

When Fermat's breathing returned to normal, he gave his pretty friend a grateful smile. In the midst of an asthma attack, without his inhaler, he was pretty much helpless.

"Thanks, T- TinTin," he told the worried girl. She responded with a brief answering smile, and a gentle pat.

"De rien, Mon Petit. Those with sanity must stay together amidst chaos."

Fermat blushed, stifling a nervouslaugh. He hadn't the confidence of Alan and Gordon, though he certainly strove to attain it. In private, he'd even practiced some of Alan's best pick-up lines… just in case.

They stood at the end of a floating walkway, perhaps 60 meters off the hangar floor. Equally far above them, huge metal doors spanned the stone ceiling. Ahead lay Thunderbird 7, her dark, curving metal entirely innocent of hatch or porthole. Nothing marred the Bird's hull but a palm-print scanner, which Gordon now pressed his hand to. His identity was once again scanned and verified, then read into 7's computer.

Apparently, Brains trusted him, because a spot of glowing white swam up through the hull, and opened out like a vesicle reaching the cell membrane. They crowded into the resultant bubble, watching shimmering circuitry branch and flow through the metal as it sealed shut behind them. It was almost organic; self-assembling nanotechnology that formed a completely responsive, adaptable ship… one with shape-memory, and the capacity to learn.

The new airlock actually moved, flowing to the inner side of the hull, where it thinned and quivered like a soap bubble before opening onto the cockpit. No sooner had they stepped within, than the interior began reorganizing itself to accommodate four occupants.

_"Sweet!" _Alan blurted aloud, watching two more seats and a new console spring into being.

"It's ace, all right," Gordon admitted, shrugging away his own doubts. "Bit more than th' simulations let on, though."

Fermat simply stood in one spot, turning round and looking everywhere at once with big blue eyes.

"I… w- wow! My D- dad's a… complete and utter… g- genius!"

Alan shot his young friend a swift, exasperated look.

"Well… _durrr!_" He mocked, slapping at his own forehead. "That's why we, like, _hired _him!"

Gordon gave the other Tracy a rough shove.

"Manners!" He snapped, stepping away from Alan's wild swing. "Keep on at him so, and like as not this fine-lookin' and likeable ship'll heave you out on y'r arse. In _space_."

Alan's sky-blue eyes got very big, suddenly, and his mouth very closed. He looked positively bunny-stunned.

"Just kidding!" He whispered, glancing worriedly around at polished chrome and blinking lights. Draping an arm around Fermat, he added heartily,

"Me and Fermat are friends! Good, good friends. Nothing but good times, all day long. Right, Fermat?"

The younger boy feigned severity, saying,

"W- well… let me… th- think, Alan. There was th- that time… you snuck in and… p- poured warm water on m- my mattress. Kept... doing it, t- too. Had m- me convinced for… three w- weeks that I was… w- wetting the b- bed."

Meanwhile, TinTin leaned close to Gordon, half sending, half whispering,

"That was _most _unkind to your brother!"

The swimmer shrugged and started forward, whispering back (or maybe just thinking),

"He had it comin'. Now, get a uniform, quit carpin' at me, and let's be off. I've close on a thousand laps t' make up, as it is."

A few minutes later, all four were suitably clothed and strapped into seats that fit them each perfectly; Gordon and Alan at the pilot and copilot positions, TinTin and Fermat ranged somewhat behind, manning the comm and rescue equipment consoles.

At Gordon's first touch to the controls (stick and throttle, because he requested it so), a wide view port opened in the forward hull, shielded by nothing more than magnetic force. The set-up worked because air molecules wandering too close to the opening were given enough of a charge to bounce them away. People and objects, too. The field could strengthen in atto-seconds to plasma-containment level, for its power source was truly unique, and mighty. Deep in the heart of Thunderbird 7, shielded from the outside universe by an infinite series of nested dark energy spheres, lay a tiny pearl of quark matter.

While TinTin keyed up the frequency Alan had given her, Gordon triggered 7's launch sequence. At the same time, Fermat used the ship's onboard computer to hack into the island's comm and defense systems. No word of their launch would reach Jeff Tracy or Brains, until 7 was well away, and out of reach.

"Shall we?" Gordon asked his younger brother, all pretended solemnity.

"Oh, do let's," Alan replied, his usual mischief returning in full. Surfing, rescues, mysterious backward messages… it was all one big adventure to him, and anyone who felt like coming was invited along for the ride.

"Hey, T…!" Alan called over, when Gordon had returned his attention to the controls, "Didja, like, pick up the signal, yet?"

The girl flapped an irritated hand, as though driving away a bothersome gnat. Alan had no way of knowing that she was reordering circuitry with her mind, trebling the scanner's sensitivity. It was terribly difficult, even so, to…

There, _Dieu merci!_ Faint, but audible, the wavering hiss of a distant, very alien-feeling transmitter.

"Pardon, Monsieur, for that we have not been introduced, but I am a friend of Alain, with whom you have already spoken. We have a 'lock' upon your signal, Monsieur, and will follow with all speed."

Beneath her seat, communicated through deck, upholstery and console, Thunderbird 7 seemed to quiver. Far overhead, the hangar doors rumbled open, admitting sunshine and a splinter of chilly blue sky. The way lay open before them, straight through the caldera, and out of the atmosphere. Gordon charged her engines, bringing 7 to eager, surging life.

TinTin leaned over her console, concentrating along circuit paths and high-gain omni antennas. Feeble and broken had come the reply,

_".em eveileb ,tsissa eht…dalG. ssiM ,melborp…toN"_

Then, using diamagnetic levitation, silent and swift as a bat, Thunderbird 7 shot from her volcanic lair.


	9. Chapter 9: Havoc

Small, vital edit. More to come, probably...

9

_Thunderbird 7-_

The sensation of lofty speed was so smooth, so utterly noiseless, as to be dream-like; one of those heady night-visions that dips you in and out amid clouds and stars. The kind that ends when you fall from bed.

Above them, blue sky flickered and faded to sudden black. Below them, Tracy Island shrank away in frenetic reverse. Landscape to island to volcanic dot, then white-streaked ocean and curving horizon.Fifteen seconds, tops.

Alan clutched at his padded armrests, heart hammering, breath caught midway between terrified shriek and ecstatic laughter. The Tracy Building, in Hong Kong, had a magnetic bullet elevator that was fast… but nothing like _this._

"Dude…," Alan gasped, when at last he could speak, "you could make serious money with this thing at a, like, theme park."

"Absolutely…" Gordon agreed blurrily, "first in th' queue f'r tickets, my word on it."

He didn't look so good, though. Behind him, Fermat was almost too awed to speak, repeating very quietly,

"H- how did… he _do_ all of… th- this?"

Not everyone was so thrilled by the ride. TinTin merely shook her head, lips slightly pursed. The technology and power she'd just witnessed were nearly unfathomable… inexplicable. Where had it come from? She didn't feel entirely comfortable raising questions, though. Not here.

Up front, Alan felt the spacecraft's artificial gravity shift as Thunderbird 7 adjusted herself to meet the demands of orbital flight. A neutronium-hard, soap-bubble thin film had grown over the forward view port; like an inner eyelid, almost. Meanwhile, micro-thrusters budded out of the hull, ready to propel 7 in whichever direction her pilot indicated.

From her console, TinTin input the signal's coordinates: halfway around the world in terms of distance and seeming origin, though not bounced via satellites or atmospheric interface. Rather, the faint, backward transmission had simply passed through the planet like a laser through air… as though the Earth didn't even exist. _Odd._

Responding to Gordon's touch, Thunderbird 7 reoriented herself, aiming along the curve of the Earth toward morning, and the signal's incept point. Stick and throttle shifted slightly in his tightening grip. Readouts migrated along the instrument panel, nudging into view. Once again, not much like the simulations, especially when a second, overhead port opened in the hull.

A bit off-putting, but Hackenbacker surely knew what he was about, and didn't all new technology seem a trifle sinister, at first? The ID chips, rescue craft and even Braman had rubbed folk the wrong way, initially. And Thunderbird 7 was truly one-of-a-kind; a technological marvel.

Now, deep within her drive system, nested dark energy spheres began snapping out of existence. An infinite number grew infinitesimally small, until what remained was no longer enough to shield her quark-matter heart. Raw, savage power jetted forth, was channeled like a trio of solar flares. Thunderbird 7 and her occupants were hurled around the Earth in a widening spiral, making several complete circuits in less time than it took to gasp aloud.

Induced magnetic repulsion had put them in orbit; pin-like jets of freed quark-matter took them the rest of the way.

TinTin's coordinates slung them past a shrinking, Doppler-streaked Earth to a jagged rent in space, a starless void barely larger than the ship, itself. With no time to react, no way to avoid the plunge, Alan and the rest could only shut their eyes and brace. Then, they were in.

At one moment, every sense and fiber exploded with input. At the next, all was silence, peace, and blank white emptiness. There came a reversed, 'combed-through' feeling… more confusing than painful. Closed eyelids failed to conceal an upside-down, smoldering Earth, spinning backward… set amid bottomless dark stars on a field of new-fallen space. _Their_ time, once slow as toothpaste, was violently altered.

Thunderbird 7 shuddered and warped around them, surviving what no other vessel could have. Changing, but remaining whole, she somehow defended those within her from being to torn to tiny, sparking bits. They were too busy being sick to grasp the magnitude of what they'd passed through, however. That would come later. Normalcy returned almost unnoticed, space coalescing like a shy mist in a universe 180 degrees removed from their own.

_World Space Agency listening post, OWS-_

That miraculous signal, again… but stronger, this time. Not reversed, or broken. Before, it had seemed to come from someplace terribly distant. Now it was close, drawing nearer at impossible speed.

Between one thing and another he'd been injured. Pretty severely, Matt suspected, though it was hard to be sure. Certainty had gone the way of memory and vision, and the use of his broken right arm. He tried not to think too much about what his body and bio-med sensors were telling him, any more than he dwelt on the chilling silence from Earth, WSA or the Moon. No need.

His orbital home spoke loudly enough, with each groan and rumbling shudder, each desolate blast of the master alarm. He'd had to cut the thing off manually, after putting the fires out… but the worst seemed to be over. Someone had finally responded. Help was on its way.

He floated by the main comm panel, tethered to a bulkhead brace, seeing nothing but grayish fog and fitful, winking lights. Then it came again, in a voice young and deeply concerned:

_"Orbital Weather Station, from Thunderbird 7. We have you in sight. You still with us, Matt?"_

Thunder-_what?_

Pulling away his oxygen mask, Captain Tracy responded,

"Copy that, 7. Thanks for coming out. Docking hatch on the Canuck module still works, I think. Can't miss it… big red maple leaf. And you, uh… might want to bring your gas masks. Air quality's a little low." To say the least. Chemical extinguishers and dense smoke had made the interior of his station resemble a scene from hell.

This time, it was the French girl who replied, her voice serious, and… Matt jerked violently backward, sending himself snapping to the end of his tether, then back again. For just an instant, he'd felt something like a touch… but not physically. Most of the pain he was in vanished at once, making it easier to work. Not coincidentally, so did his memory of the weird contact.

He responded to the girl's request almost before she posed it, feeling around for the C-module airlock extension switch.

_"Have you, please, a method for extending your boarding hatch, Monsieur? And perhaps to illuminate the hull lightings, as well?"_

"That's affirm, Miss. Lights and welcome mat, coming right up."

He found the deep-space radar screen and counted leftward 3 switches, seeing in his mind's eye the entire control panel. What was it Pete had told them all, just before…?

_'Tracy could run this thing blindfolded, with both hands tied!'_

God… he'd never expected to have to prove it.

A cautiously toggled switch sparked once, then decided to do its job. Outside, if all was functioning properly (?) the lights on the Canadian Module would be flickering on. So far, so good…

Until a sudden, shrill beep from the master control panel informed him that he'd have to manage _his_ end of the docking maneuvers, manually. Matt fought the urge to curse aloud, or give in. Even with the station's artificial gravity and climate shut down, there wasn't enough power to remote-operate the airlocks. Time to dig a little deeper, and switch plays.

"Okay," he announced, after pulling the O2 away, again, "porch light's on. Give me a sec to get to the door, and I'll let you guys in."

So saying, Matt Tracy unhooked his tether and began a blind, fumbling drift through the wounded space station, outward from central hub to receiving. He moved slowly, counting passages by touch, avoiding known hazards, and arriving several long minutes after the rescue ship had bumped up to what remained of the Canadian Module. Another hard spasm rocked the station, as the (apparently) inexperienced pilots botched their first parking attempt.

Not good. His space station's orbit was already degrading, and an additional push would only speed its final plunge.

Hauling himself along with one hand, staying close enough to the creaking, flexing bulkhead to see and count the panel lights, Matt reached docking hatch 'C'. Controls to the right, if he remembered properly… _there._ Like he was reading it off a wrist-board checklist, the procedure came to mind.

_Power to mechanism… extend airlock… fasten clamps… equalize pressure… _(More thumping and scraping, then, as the two vessels locked together) _…open C-1, and…_

"Welcome aboard," Matt greeted the several shadowy figures who piled inside. "Sorry about the mess..."

Then, more-or-less rescued, he blacked out.

_Regular universe, Thunderbird 3-_

After an instant of stunned silence, Scott managed,

"Say again, Base? They did… _what?"_

"Launched Thunderbird 7," Jeff Tracy snapped back, grim as a carved apostle. "According to Brains, they seem to be following some kind of extraterrestrial signal, to God-knows-what."

He was about to say more, but a voice from beyond comm range distracted the older man's attention. Jeff's head snapped sideways. In profile, he looked as craggy and bleak as Denali.

_"Dammit!"_ He muttered hoarsely. "You're sure…?"

The Tracy patriarch turned to face his older sons.

"The situation's changed, again. They've vanished; ship, signal and all. I'm uploading their last known position, Scott. I…"

He didn't have to say the rest. Scott was already punching in coordinates. Virgil, space sickness and romantic troubles forgotten, engaged auxiliary control, allowing his brother time to plan.

Not so long ago, Virgil had set off on an unauthorized mission to Spain, with Gordon riding shotgun. That had been entirely different, though. What made all kinds of sense when _he'd _done it seemed like a damn-fool joyride now that Gordon and Alan were at the stick. _Stupid kids._

"We'll get 'em back, Dad," Virgil promised, feeling a little guilty about the precedent he'd set. Jeff Tracy's life would no doubt have been simpler if the rest of his sons had been more like Scott; crisp, obedient and efficient.

Over the comm screen, their father nodded.

"FAB, Son. Do your best, don't take any unnecessary risks, and keep in mind that 7 is a prototype. There are quite a number of untested 'Brains-storms' on that Bird with the potential to backfire. Proceed with _extreme_ caution."

_Thunderbird 7, docked with the Orbital Weather Station-_

'Mess' didn't begin to cover it. Seen from close-to, the space station was a listing ruin trapped in a quickly degrading orbit. Fire and explosion seemed to have nearly gutted her, leaving just the central hub and one or two modules still habitable. Of crew, they detected but one.

When the airlocks clattered open, the four rescuers rushed out into micro-gravity and lung-searing smog. Matt floated nearby, his appearance giving them as much pause as the derelict space station had. Battered and blond, seemingly in his late twenties, he looked lot like John… if the second Tracy had been run through the spin cycle with several dozen sharp knives and some engine parts, that is.

He lost consciousness almost immediately after welcoming them aboard. No help or explanations, there. All right, then; one step at a time…

Gordon shot TinTin a quick look.

"Take him aboard 7, if y' would, Angel, an' see t' patchin' him up. Fermat can remain, as well, in the event a bit of backup's wanted. Alan?"

His brother, who'd launched himself at the comatose astronaut, looked over.

"Yeah?"

"You an' I'll head t' th' nerve center, see what's t' be done there by way of repairs."

Alan nodded reluctantly; pushing Matt's limp, drifting form to the waiting girl.

"Okay. I'll just…"

_"Now_, Alan."

Truthfully, Gordon wanted to rescue their man and have done with the whole dodgy business. He'd caught a glimpse of Earth as they'd raced for the damaged space station… and something there was very, very wrong; very far from what he knew. Somehow, following Matt's signal, they'd wandered… elsewhere, and Gordon wasn't at all certain he knew how to get them back. What he did feel was a tearing need to _hurry._

Perhaps Alan sensed his brother's unease. At any rate, he didn't snap back, or protest the order. Making sure that TinTin and Fermat had a safe grip on Matt, he muttered,

"Take care of him, okay? I'm, like, the guy he first talked to, and I promised we'd help him out. If he wakes up before I get back, tell him I said, 'hey', and that I'll be along to visit as soon as the station's back in shape."

TinTin smiled at him, looking… gentle, or something.

"All will be well with your friend, Alain. I will call regularly with updates of his progress," she promised softly, touching Alan's shoulder.

Gordon had been studying a bulkhead-mounted 'floor plan'.

"Alan!"

The youngest brother rolled his blue eyes.

"Yes_, Sir,_ Mr. Olympic-Tracy, Sir! Be right there!"

Alan didn't quite share Gordon's worry, or TinTin's, either. As far as _he_ was concerned, astronaut and space station could still be fixed, Thunderbird 7 was way cool, and going home was just a matter of firing up the engines and turning around. No big deal, right? And _certainly_ no reason to yell.

While Alan scooted along a charred tunnel after his brother, TinTin and Fermat began hauling Matt through the airlocks to Thunderbird 7. She hadn't much time to examine the unconscious young man, but formed a few quick impressions, anyhow.

He wore a bloodied green coverall suit with _'WSA'_ and _'Capt. Tracy'_ stenciled on the chest. His shattered right arm had been clumsily bound, splinted with a piece of metal strapping and a raggedly torn shirt. Oozing second-degree burns to his left side and arm added to the picture of one who'd beaten back disaster and nearly killed himself doing it. In other words: a typical Tracy.

Together, Fermat and TinTin rushed him back to the black ship, Fermat pausing briefly to study a network of strange umbilicals which had spread to the space station from 7. They'd grown through the airlock and into a hatch-side control panel… like tendrils, or something. About as thick around as Fermat's wrist, the cables glittered faintly, seeming to pulse with data and circuitry.

The boy glanced swiftly over, scanning TinTin's face, but she was too occupied with Matt to notice much else. He hesitated, then returned to the matter at hand, thinking that he could always come back for a scan and sample, later. Matt needed help, _now._

To the medical center they bore him, then, shoving other concerns aside as they struggled to heal what felt like one of their own.

_Washington D.C.: a hidden, shielded office outside the Beltway-_

For a conference this vital, this _risky,_ Stennis had no choice but to leave Capitol Hill. He was seated now in a tiny cement cubicle, its unadorned walls painted a featureless, hospital-issue white. The metal file desk and secure laptop before him were 'misplaced government stock'; virtually untraceable. Adding to the safety measures, Vargas would do the actual negotiating, prompted occasionally by Senator Stennis, whose voice and image would be electronically distorted. Secrecy, after all, was everything.

The appointed time arrived. The laptop's flat screen flashed, then cleared, splitting to display two very different individuals. Both were Red Path operatives, recently activated agents from distant cells. Both, like Vicente Vargas, were skilled assassins.

Ordinarily, Stennis would have contacted them separately, but hair-fine coordination was required in this instance. Nothing could be allowed to go wrong. The left hand needed not just to _know_ what the right hand was doing, but to watch and advise it, and if necessary, cut it off.

Stennis regarded his operatives for a moment, letting them wait just a little before signaling Vargas to speak.

The dark-haired male, 'Stirling', was the most powerful of the two, and the least human. A relentless contract hunter, he'd been cybernetically enhanced to the point that no flesh-and-blood victim stood a chance. He favored broken necks, beatings and falls, and, once given a mark, he pursued his quarry clear to their violent, terrified end.

The female was quite striking, even beneath her red head scarf and sunglasses. Her code name was 'Genovese', though she'd several other known aliases. She was something of a technician, preferring bombs, traps, sniper posts, and the like. She'd a slightly lower percentage than Stirling, having once or twice rejected a contract, but was still very useful. A woman, especially a beautiful one, could often go where a man could not.

Then, of course, there was Vargas himself; the Senator's ablest lieutenant. Vargas was an artisan, a bit too given to baroque gadgetry and scene-setting, but extremely loyal. He never panicked, or lost the trail, and no one had ever escaped him. No one.

Stennis gave the small man a quiet nod, which Vargas returned. The lieutenant then opened the day's business, in his guise as 'Mr. Black'.

"Ma'am…, Sir…," he began (losing his Peruvian accent like a molting snake its skin) "the Director has an assignment for each of you, for which dossiers arrived precisely an hour ago. At conclusion of negotiations, you are to memorize the material in the dossiers, then destroy them. The couriers who brought you this information will be waiting at their beta extraction sites. You will find and dispose of them, leaving no witnesses or evidence, then proceed to your assignments."

Vargas' cold, dark eyes went first to Stirling, whose bionic enhancements had converted to a ruthless, gloating predator. He appeared to be seated at a wooden table, in some tiny, shadowed room.

"Mr. Stirling, you are to proceed to the town of 'Wharton', in New York of the United States. You have been given dual targets, persons of interest who are to be brought to site 3 for further attention. They are legal minors. Will this be an impediment?"

The killer smiled, revealing overly-perfect teeth. His pale eyes, which saw across a much broader spectrum than anyone but his dead surgeons would ever know, locked onto those of Vicente Vargas.

"No such thing as an impediment, Mr. Black. A mark's a mark. Just point me in the right direction and pay me the usual sum. Half now, half on delivery."

Vargas nodded briskly.

"Very good, then, Mr. Stirling. You are engaged. Ten million will be deposited by close of business, Greenwich Mean Time. Good hunting."

Now, for the other, the female. Through her scanner-blocking glasses, Vargas could feel her calm gaze. He wasn't positive what she actually looked like, as their dealings were always long distance, behind disguises that masked hair, eye and skin color. Even her accent was indeterminate, sort of put-on, generalized European. Her transmitted image had no backdrop, her location having been digitally erased.

"Miss Genovese," he said to the 'invisible' woman, "if the terms are acceptable, the Director would like you to go to the city of Houston, in Texas of the United States, and establish yourself at the… _er_…, 'Johnson Space Flight Center'. You have five months to position yourself at the highest levels, as a trustworthy and beloved aide. Your target is a public figure. It is required that he experience a sudden, terminal accident. Something affecting and unfortunate. The situation may be as public as you like, but absolutely above suspicion. Is this acceptable?"

"It is."

Her whispered reply carried the merest hint of amusement. Evidently, the target outlined in that slim dossier was altogether satisfactory.

"I will require the usual set-up and bribery funds, Mr. Black, as well as local contacts, and a line of 'company credit'."

Vargas looked over at the senator, who nodded.

"Very well, Miss Genovese. You, too, are engaged, and it shall be done as you request."

For his own part, Vicente Vargas' mark was rather higher… the suspected head of the tangled serpent's nest that was International Rescue. He quite looked forward to the challenge.


	10. Chapter 10: There's no place like 1270

10: There's no place like 127.0.0.1

_Mars, Endurance Base-_

Earlier, at the newly-dug comm center:

"Houston, _Endurance._ We've got some, uh… got a couple of 'updates', for you."

_"Endurance, _this is Houston. Go ahead, Pete."

Although they probably knew, already…

"Yeah. You aren't, uh… sitting _down_, by any chance, are you, Gene?"

_A few hours later, in the space craft-_

With tasks accomplished, for the moment, and supper not yet prepared, the Ares III crew gathered 'upstairs', in their scanner-shielded storm shelter. There, amid the familiar creaks and pops of _Endurance, _the greenish lighting and (_dry)_ duct-taped upholstery, five worried astronauts met to confer. Standing before them, Pete led off.

Scrolling down through a data-pad list, the sandy-haired mission commander shifted his gum from one cheek to the other.

"Okay… third official meeting of the Argyre Basin Country Club is now in session. Lot of stuff to cover, here…."

Down he scrolled, with a deep scowl and impatient finger jab.

"Yeah… _blah, blah, blah_… let's cut to the chase."

The data-board, carelessly tossed, clattered onto a low table and cut itself off. Pete McCord pointed at Linda, specifically, her still-flattish stomach.

"We need to make a decision about Junior, and I mean _now._ Hang on…!"

The mission commander lifted a quieting hand, as everyone but John started talking at once.

"I'm looking at this from the standpoint of safety; namely, Dr. Bennett's."

Pete's arms folded across his chest. He was casually dressed in blue sweat pants and a Navy P.T. shirt, but would have retained his authority in just about anything.

"No offense, Doctor, but you picked about the worst damn time and spot in the solar system to turn fertile on us."

His gum chewing speeded up as Linda sank lower in her chair, and John (who stood a little behind her) stepped closer.

"I mean… we got toxic gases, radiation, alien microbes…"

"Perfectly harmless thus far, Pete!" Doctor Kim cut in anxiously. The Blue Stuff and Brown Strain (christened _Exobacter Cyanococcus _and _Exobacter Ferrospirillum)_ were pure wonder to Kim Cho. The exobiologist saw, not slime, but life; amazing, tenacious, struggling _life._

"Glad to hear it, Cho."

Pete resumed control, his blue eyes scanning the faces ranged before him.

"…_but,_ even if we manage to keep our bun in the oven, what the hell happens when it's time to go home?"

He leaned forward now, terribly serious.

"Linda, in five months, which is too damn early to safely deliver a kid, we're gonna be shake-and-baking our way through goddam re-entry! With a delicate preemie or a pregnant crewman, take your choice! Either way, someone's gonna get hurt… or killed. For the safety of my crew, which _I _am entirely responsible for…"

"Pete, _stop."_ John had stepped around Linda's chair. He was… not angry, exactly… but very focused.

"There's another… _two_ other, actually… possibilities. I haven't had a chance to really…"

He looked over at the doctor, who was huddled up, arms wrapped around herself. Her face was blank, her brown eyes very wide. Wounded people looked like that, sometimes, before they realized quite how badly they'd been hurt.

Not sure what she needed from him, John put a hand out and pushed some of the hair off her forehead, like Grandma did, sometimes, with him. Linda reached up, took his hand and brought it down, squeezing almost hard enough to crush bone.

Turning back to the mission commander, John resumed talking.

"Anyway, I… I know some people who can get here in a damn quick hurry. Less than 24 hours after calling them, the d…"

He glanced at her, again, a little uncertainly.

_"Linda_ could be evacuated back to Earth, with a much gentler, definitely survivable re-entry process."

Pete shifted stance and gum, blasting the scent of Juicy Fruit throughout the small cabin.

"You're talking about International Rescue?" he demanded.

A second or two passed, during which John weighed matters. Then, he nodded.

"Yeah. They'll come," the pilot insisted quietly, eyes on the padded deck. "If that's what she wants to do, but there's… um, a _third _option. We've got all that frozen embryo equipment. I'm not a biologist… but it seems like we could _interrupt_ the pregnancy, store the baby in one of those embryo thermoses, then put it back and start the clock again, once everyone's safe on Earth."

Pete stopped chewing. He looked over at Cho.

"Professional assessment; would it work, Doctor?"

The exobiologist frowned consideringly. She was standing beside her fiancé, Roger Thorpe, who dwarfed her. By way of support, the Marine had placed a big, warm hand on Kim's uniformed shoulder _(what if, instead of Linda and John, it had been them?)_ With a slow nod, she said,

"I believe yes, Pete. As John has suggested, the equipment and procedures exist, and I am well qualified to perform surgery. There would require to be hormonal therapy, to maintain Linda's body in a pregnancy state, but such things can be artificially mimicked. The child, held in cold storage, would be safe from harm, until re-implantation. It could be done, I am certain, without significant risk to the mission, the crew, _or_ the child."

"Okay," Pete grunted, visibly more relaxed. He could be a hard-ass when he had to be, but seemed genuinely grateful to have been given an out. Running a hand over his thinning hair and shiny scalp, the mission commander looked around at his crew.

"So… it's a vote, then, because this affects us all, junior crewman included, and _no one_ abstains. We clear?"

Everyone nodded, Linda Bennett mouthing, _'clear'_, as she released her grip on John's hand. Pete continued,

"All right, I'll go first. The options are: _Direct abort,_ which costs us Junior, but has Linda up and running almost immediately, and poses the fewest complications…

"_Evacuation,_ which costs us a valued crewman (I'm assuming that your 'friends' would be willing to ship someone in from the back-up crew, Tracy…? Good.) Like I say, we lose Dr. Bennett for the rest of the mission this way, but we know that she, and Junior, are as safe as can be arranged. Then, option three…

"_Cold storage._ We keep Linda, Junior's put on ice, and the pregnancy resumes when we've wrapped up the mission."

McCord rubbed at the back of his own neck, then puffed out a gusty breath and said,

"I vote to evacuate. Sending you home seems like the safest option to me. Thorpe?"

The Marine had placed both hands, one at each shoulder, on Dr. Kim. Speaking slowly, and with many apologetic glances at Linda Bennett, he said,

"I have to go with the skipper, on this one… evacuate. I know that if it was Cho we were talking about, here… there'd be no question. The fewest potential problems _gotta_ top the stack, which means we advance in the opposite direction." (AKA: _retreat_, though, as a Marine, Roger didn't like that word.)

Kim Cho looked at her friend, trying to decide what Linda wanted her to say. Her ponytail was giving her a headache, so she loosed it with a quick, nervous jerk. Black hair tumbled down around her shoulders.

"I… if Linda wishes to remain…" (the other doctor, her best friend, nodded tightly). "…then I will vote for interruption and storage. It need not be seen as very dangerous. I can _do_ this. Safely, and with no one lost to us."

And then it was John's turn. Both Pete and Roger seemed to expect that he'd vote with them, to get the endangered woman the hell out of Dodge, but… John hesitated. Once again, he wished that he better understood the language of facial expression and gesture. She wasn't looking his way, but her hands were twined very tightly together in her lap, and a small muscle twitched at the side of her face. Also, she'd nodded at Dr. Kim's question. Meaning…?

She'd want to complete the mission, he decided, and (weird notion, this) to stay with _him._ She'd want the baby safe, as well. Three inputs: mission, proximity and Junior. One choice.

"Embryo storage," John announced. "I vote, if Linda agrees, to temporarily interrupt the pregnancy and resume it on Earth, at end of mission."

He had a second idea, as well, but decided that it might be advisable to _ask_, first.

Pete nodded, and everyone turned to regard Dr. Bennett. She'd un-hunched just a little. Lifting a hand with two fingers raised, she said,

"I get two votes. For myself, and the 'junior crewman'. We may be barely past the hollow ball stage, but he's in this deeper than anyone else, so he counts."

Pete blew and snapped a bubble (very hard to do with regular chewing gum, but he was a talented guy).

"One and a _half,"_ he clarified, semi-seriously.

(Not that it really mattered. Even with one vote, she'd have broken the tie.)

"I have yet to see Junior on the duty roster, and you don't get a full vote around here till you start pulling your own weight."

"Fair enough," she smiled a little, adding, "If it can be done safely… then _we_ vote for interruption, storage and reinsertion, back on Earth."

Tie broken.

Pete brought his hands together with a sharp clap, then rubbed them briskly before him. All through the cabin, tension faded like a bad dream.

"It's settled. 3 ½ to 2 in favor of putting Junior in storage, and completing the mission. Meeting adjourned."

McCord grinned suddenly, strolling over to slap Dr. Bennett on the shoulder.

"Guess it's okay to pass on Houston's message, then," he told her. "The boys back at bio-med wanted to say: C_ongratulations, it's a girl."_


	11. Chapter 11: Otherverse

Thank you for your patience, and I apologize for all the confusion. Sometimes I get excited, and forget to fully explain what's in my head. Hopefully, herein please find a few clarifications _and_ some edits...

**11:** **Otherverse**

_Thunderbird 7, the treatment center-_

Warmth and darkness held him tight as the black-velvet nest for a rifle part or a musical instrument. But, every so often, the world broke through. The intrusions came softly; more questioning brushes than sharp slaps. There were assorted noises: the quick, precise sound of busy hands, humming machinery, and a girl's occasional murmured voice.

The sounds wove drunkenly back and forth across the border between sleep and waking, one moment dream-like and echoing, sharp and bright the next. He let them be, content to imagine that someone was actually there.

The illusion persisted, though, which began nagging him awake, or trying to. Opening his eyes was no easy task while pain and memory rolled around at the murky bottom of a chemical sea, but Matt finally succeeded, literally _forcing_ himself conscious.

Crabs in a pot of boiling water would batter and crash at the lid, fighting to get out. He knew this, because he'd long ago infuriated his mother at the beach house in Maine. Sneaking into the kitchen, he'd released the very last batch of stone crabs she ever tried to cook.

_(…and why he thought of this now, Matt had no idea…)_

"John Matthew!" She'd snapped from the porch steps, hands at her hips, while crabs fled desperately across road and sand to churning grey water. "They're_ injured._ You haven't saved them! They'll die, anyhow, and there goes supper, to the gulls and the traffic!"

She'd worn a pale blue summer dress with a lobster-print apron over it, her sun bleached hair was pony-tailed back …and father had still been alive.

Leaning against whitewashed planks with his arms folded, trying not to laugh, Jeff Tracy had remarked,

"I'm afraid she's right, Son. I know you meant well, but the crabs are too scalded to defend themselves, or fight off infection. They're going to die."

"But not trapped in the dark," he'd insisted stubbornly, small, burnt hands fisted in his shorts' pockets, blond head lowered. "Not in a _pot."_

This time, it wasn't his father who answered. Not Scott or Virgil, either. Instead, Matt Tracy's half-open eyes found focus on a young oriental girl with a very shy smile.

"Non," she replied. "Not trapped, nor boiling, Monsieur. You are still fevered, but safe in Thunderbird 7. And your station is likewise undergoing repair."

She adjusted something out of his dim and tunneled field of view. Then, there came a wordless guarantee:

_'Rest and heal. Your watch is being covered, and all will be well.'_

He believed her, and he slept.

_Space, Thunderbird 3, the cockpit-_

Sleek as a crimson needle, the space craft followed 7's gravitational 'wake' to a certain point in low orbit.

"Uh…" Virgil leaned over his instrument panel, scowling at the telemetry Braman was feeding him. "Okay… this is really _strange."_

"What?" Scott responded, switching scanner settings. For some reason, he couldn't seem to find…

"Uh-uh. Not 'what'; _'where'_, and _'where the hell'_?"

Scott glanced over, a panel full of glowing instrument lights reflected in his deep blue eyes. Before he could ask, Virgil clarified.

"First, we're at Thunderbird 5's old spot, low and over the equator. Second… the trail's vanished."

"Maybe they cut power?" The pilot hazarded, his heavy dark brows drawing together.

Virgil shook his head, giving himself an unwelcome moment of vertigo. The cabin was spinning, but he squeezed his brown eyes shut, and kept talking.

"Naw... I mean _vanished._ Gone. No debris, no energy field… nothing. The trail cuts off right here, like somebody slammed a door."

Scott shifted in his seat straps, one hand at the comm button. _Now _what?

_Endurance Base, Mars, the new communications center-_

John had uploaded Braman, but hadn't fullydisabled the other. The official COS was still present, in all its slow, fubar'd glory, lobbing mission and medical data back and forth from Mars to Houston, like sloppy water balloons.

Thing was, Braman had two basic settings; overt, and damn near invisible. It could be installed very quietly, leaving only the shell of NASA's operating system apparently chugging right along. In that way, everybody won. NASA got jaw-dropping accuracy and calculation rates, Brains' entangled photon comm system worked properly, and International Rescue got a wide-open data window. Very helpful in the event a rescue became necessary, or a piece of Tracy Aerospace equipment malfunctioned _(John had no desire to crawl through the chewing parts of another robot drill)._

Still… he'd long had the intense, stubborn feeling that there was another way. That _he _could have designed something better. And the scribbled backs of about ten-thousand envelopes and a bunch of discarded napkins proved he'd been trying.

John glanced at his watch. 13:52:04… He had time, still, before he was due to join Roger at the south dig. His laptop was back at his sleeping compartment, aboard ship, so John simply opened up a notepad on the screen before him and began programming, slipping into a half-conscious, time-stretched mental state, and coding on the fly. Numbers, calculations and conversions, the states AND, OR, NOT and a million pale shades in between, flickered through his thoughts, forming something; a presence, a picture. Almost, a personality. It was there, the thing he'd been missing… in the alignment of cross-dimensional logic gates, or the spin state of super-cooled electrons… enough 'uncertainty' to allow genuine thought. _It could be done._

Then, sudden as a striking fist, the notepad window closed, sending what he'd keyed in to computer perdition in _/dev/null_.

John blinked, thrown out of his semi-hypnosis. A very strangeerror message had come up. Not from the official operating system, from Braman.

-_UnauThorized **p**r**o**gramming actiVity: Further ac**t**ion**S** prohibited.-_

"What the hell…?"

He leaned forward in his chair, which squeaked backward just a bit. John tended not to get angry, but to switch to rapid contingency mode. There was always… _always_… a plan B.

He opened a second work space in a different program, but this one shut down immediately. Again, came the error message; stark black letters on a white screen, some of them strangely larger than others, or slightly blurred, as though moving.

_-UnauThoriz**e**d programMing ac**t**ivity: Furth**e**r action wi**l**l be pr**e**vente**D**-_

John stared at the screen, aware that (through webcam and high-tech bio-med sensors, through scanning and comm systems) he was being minutely observed in return.

…And what could be seen might be altered. Time for plan C. He felt through his pockets for paper and a flash-drive, only to face another interruption.

Linda walked briskly through the hatch, looking a little nauseous. He turned in the chair to face her. All at once, it became very important to John that she and 'Junior' not come within site of the computer screen. Cutting power, he rose with sudden, clumsy speed. One of the chair's wheels caught on a floor seam, and it toppled. John moved to catch the thing, and over-corrected. On Mars, he weighed a scant 71 pounds, and was still working out the proper application of strength required for normal activity. Net result: the chair fell over, hard plastic clattering loudly against raised metal flooring.

Dr. Bennett shook her head.

"You okay?"

John looked around, as though honestly unsure whom she'djust addressed.

"Yes, _you_, Sunshine. Unless you've got an invisible friend, there's no one else here. _I'm_ the one who's picked up a hitchhiker, remember?"

Yanking the chair upright (too much force, again), John came forward. He moved to stand between woman and computer station, hearing a slight sound from behind him as power came on, again, and the camera's lens swiveled to track him.

He put a hand on her slim shoulder, newly aware of how small she seemed. How vulnerable.

"Yeah. Sorry. I'm good, just late for pick-axe detail with Thorpe, I guess."

He kept moving, rather unsubtly steering _(his family…?)_ out of the chamber. Linda didn't shake off the hand.

"You've got 20 minutes," she informed him, adding, "I know how you get, so I thought I'd come give you a heads-up. This way, you get there on time, and Pete's blood pressure stays normal. Sheer genius."

He smiled at the floor, increasing the pressure of his hand, slightly, before releasing her shoulder.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it. You seem to need a lot of looking after, and, uh… I can use the practice."

The tunnel they walked through wasn't high, or particularly broad.Two people standing side by sidemight easily touch both walls. The curving grey stone was slick with moisture and growth, despite periodic radiation purges. The steel deck was going to need another coat of paint, soon. _Ferrospirilum _evidently found all-weather microbe-inhibiting latex quite as tasty as iron. Half the overhead lights were out again, too, their wires eaten through by acid water. Mars; love it or leave it.

They headed east through a branching maze of underground passages, making for _Endurance._ The spacecraft was on the surface; physically linked, but otherwise independent. She was simply too primitive to support an operating system like Braman. And, there, Linda would be safe. At least, until he decided what to do next…

"Do me a favor," John began, as he handed her up the aft boarding ladder. Just overhead, mated to the tunnel roof, lay the ship's exterior airlock. "I mean, you can do whatever you like. I'm not… it's up to you."

Linda paused, for he'd made direct eye contact and held it, a very rare thing.

"Please: stay in the ship. You can monitor bio-med readings and surface scans from the flight deck, or something… and I'll keep my comm switched on."

She was several rungs up the ladder, now, hanging half-turned by one hand, while John stood on the deck just below, looking at her. It was nearly impossible to guess what had motivated that request, and dragging admissions from John Tracy was akin to pulling the claws off an under-fed tiger.

Linda decided to humor him, though. Leaning downward suddenly, she surprised him with a quick kiss.

"Okay. We'll stay inside. You take care, and… um… I'll see you tonight."

He looked away, again, having spotted a loose rung on the boarding ladder.

_Tonight?_

"Sure… if the drill doesn't blow up, we avoid cave-ins, and…"

Linda slapped at the side of his blond head.

"I'm serious!"

"Right. _'Careful'_ and _'tonight'_. Got it."

Another kiss happened, then, this one because of him. He stretched upward a little and caught her mouth. When they broke at last, Linda gave him a quick nod and hurried up the ladder. John watched her go, wishing that he had some real answers.

_Thunderbird 7, Elsewhere-_

…which, more or less, was all Fermat wanted. The boy had put his head through the treatment center hatchway, giving TinTin an urgent wave.

_"TinTin!"_ He hissed.

The girl glanced back at her sleeping charge, and then crossed the cabin. Fermat hauled her out into the passageway, where small, sparking bits of data were pouring like rain along the dark bulkheads.

Blinking up at her through his smudged glasses, the boy whispered,

"Has M- Matt recovered… enough t- to wake up and talk… yet?" His blue eyes were very large, and full of worry.

TinTin shook her head.

"No, Fermat. He has the few periods of waking, but they are brief, as yet, and I fear to push him faster. Even with nanotechnology, the healing of wounds such as hisrequires time."

And then, a bit apprehensively,

"Why?"

Fermat gestured down-passage, to the airlock/interface between Thunderbird 7 and the space station.

"I w- was hoping… for m- more detailed data. I've… b- been studying what's left of the station's m- memory… banks, _and_ Thunderbird 7, and… it's _very_ not g- good, TinTin."

"What happened?" She breathed, after a quick peep within assured the girl that Matt slept on. She, too, had seen the irradiated ruin that smoldered like a live coalbeneath them.

"As… n-nearly as I c- can tell, deciphering the f- files, some sort of… invasive intelligence s- seized control of… this world's g- government mainframes, w- with the help of… of a r- rogue political figure, and… triggered g- global nuclear war."

TinTin's soft mouth fell open, slightly.

"Then… the populace? The children? They are all…?"

Fermathad gonepale; he was a genius, yes, but also, just then,a heavily-burdened young boy.

"This w- world appears to have been… nearly sterilized. Communications are im- impossible, obviously, but I've… s-seen grouped fires moving around on… on th- the night side. So, maybe…"

At the sight of TinTin's expression (she'd deliberately, tightly shielded herself, keeping mostly to the treatment center and her patient), Fermat shifted topics.

"Uh… there's other news, too: I've noticed all kinds of amino acid chirality reversals, and there's a kind of macro-scale Pauli exclusion principle at work…"

Thankfully, Alan gave his babbling friend a dramatic assist by sprinting through the airlock hatch. Whipping off his face mask (it was still pretty smoky back at the weather station), the boy called out a greeting.

"Hey, Fermat!" He bounded over and slapped the younger lad's shoulder, nearly toppling the little fellow. Next, turning to TinTin, Alan put on his best, slow-burn sultry look.

"Hi there, Sexy! Feel free to fantasize… everybody else does."

Gordon's fortuitous appearance saved his younger brother, who'd experienced the sudden, overwhelming desire to punch himself repeatedly on the nose. Shooting TinTin a sharp look, the swimmer wrestled Alan into a tight headlock, only releasing the boy when he stopped trying to knock himself silly.

"Bloody _told_ you t' stop mucking with th' oxygen mixture," Gordon muttered, giving the girl (genuinely contrite, he understood) some cover. He needn't have troubled. Deeply awed, Alan felt of his own reddened, swollen nose and muttered,

_"Whoa_… I sure can fight!"

Glancing heavenward, Gordon dropped him.

"Right, then," the redhead grumbled. "Movin' right along…"

"How's Matt doing?" Alan cut in, sounding like he had a bad head cold.

Fermat and TinTin exchanged cautious looks.

"He… continues to improve," the girl replied, slightly shifting her stance. An accidental brush of her hand to the bulkhead caused a swift, bright gathering of data bits, and a heatless spark (left her knowing the exact temporal-spatial coordinates of Eustace, Florida, too… but that hardly signified).

"Excusez-moi, s'ils vous plait," TinTin murmured softly; to whom, she wasn't quite certain. The ship, maybe?

She sensed Matt's wakened state wellbefore she heard his voice.

"Hey…" Little more than a whisper, but the thoughts behind it were alert and troubled. TinTin pivoted hurriedly, returning to the treatment center with Alan, Gordon and Fermat.

Her patient was sitting up, grasping at the bedrails as though afraid he'd fall out. He'd been looking around at Thunderbird 7's shifting equipment and circuitry, but focused on the four rescuers when they piled into the cabin. Alan got to him, first.

"Hey, man! How're you feeling?"

Except for eye color (bluish-green), the still-battered Matt was an absolute ringer for John. A little older, possibly, and a great deal more exhausted.

"That's a tough question," he began, after taking a drink from the water bottle TinTin had left at his bedside. "When I find out what's happened back home, and how the station's doing, I'll be able to give you a full report."

Then he relented a bit, adding,

"Thanks for asking, though… and for hauling my butt off the toasting fork. I seem to be doing better. All the parts are working…"

Like John, he cocked an eyebrow, but smiled at the same time, with genuine warmth.

"…the ones I've tested, that is."

TinTin took a sudden, red-faced interest in her medical readouts, but Alan grinned.

"_Dude!_ We are _so_ gonna get along! John'll be…"

The rescued astronaut shook his head. With a lifted hand, he insisted,

"Nobody calls me that. It's been _'Matt'_, or _'Matthew'_ since I told my mother that _'John'_ sounded generic."

He'd gone so far as to take heavy black marker to a plain white t-shirt, printing: **JOHN** on the front, and an itemized ingredient list on the back. She'd taken the hint.

"Seriously, though… I couldn't make contact with anyone on Earth, or the Moon, but with technology like you guys have got, you must be getting right through. What's their status, down there? They were talking war, last I heard."

TinTin gave the boys a quick, subtle head shake. Momentarily, she considered putting Matt to sleep, again, but Gordon waded in. Looking from girl to patient, he said,

"We're hard at work establishin' comm, Sir, but it's all a bit muddled just now, what with… _er_…"

"Different f- frequencies, time… time z- zones, and the like," Fermat added helpfully, bailing Gordon out (the aquanaut had never been a talented liar; only John was worse at embroidering fact). "B- but we're… _absolutely_ on it. L- like my mom on… on germs."

Whatever Captain Tracy thought, he kept to himself, or mostly so. TinTin shot him a sudden, concerned look, biting her lower lip.

"You guys seem like a nice bunch of kids," he said, when the silence had grown awkward. "A little young to be flying missions, maybe, but I'm in no position to argue. I, uh… _would _appreciate the truth, though. Starting with where you're from, and how it is you know me."

The four friends looked at one another. Once again, Gordon shrugged and led off.

"Right. Fermat might paint a nicer image, perhaps, but it comes down t' this: an emergency transmission from your… world, I suppose… made it through t' _ours_. We followed th' signal through some sort of hole, right t' your station, here, and then we set to work tidyin' up."

A set of metallic filaments had extruded themselves from the right bedrail, pinning Matt's forearm long enough for the bed to deliver a shot. He jerked his outraged limb away from the rail, rubbing suspiciously at a tiny welt. There was, maybe, a such thing as too _much_ technology.

Fermat picked up where Gordon had stopped, continuing smoothly,

"A m- more relevant… question m- might be… why w- was your… transmission able t- to reach us? How did it… c-cross a dimensional b- barrier? Have you… p- previously ex- experienced such… anomalous occurrences?"

"He _means,"_ Alan cut in, stepping up and wriggling his fingers in mid air, "is freaky, creepy weirdness, like, constant, with you?"

Gordon sighed disgustedly, muttering,

"Cleared matters _right_ up, that did."

But, Matt seemed to understand the boy's intent.

"Well… no. Not… I mean... my mother swears that I disappeared for a few months, when I was about 19 years old… and that no one believed her that she even _had_ a third son. Not even Virgil or Scott. And then (she says)… when I showed up, again, just like nothing ever happened, nobody remembered I'd gone missing. Not even _me_. But, I mean… it was around the fifth anniversary of dad's death, and females can get kind of hysterical."

Baffled, Alan, Gordon and Fermat tried to work out how a teen-aged Matt's vanishing act might relate to their universe. TinTin stayed quiet, but she was like that, sometimes; moody.

They hadn't gotten much past the first round of speculations when a sharp, bleating alarm from thunderbird 7 shattered their thought processes like stone through window glass. As Scott had wondered, at precisely the same spot, a mere dimension/ universe away…

?_tahw woN_


	12. Chapter 12: Probe

Busy weekend,somewhat smoothed draft, followed by quick fixes 1 & 2...

12

_Mars, Endurance Base, the south tunnel (armored up for hazardous conditions)-_

In a curiously lightened mood, John strode through Roger's roughly-machined tunnel, stopping from time to time to collect rock samples and make a few positional notes. He was no geologist, but he'd been trained to spot certain crystal combinations and color bands. Back home, he'd have called such dense, light-veined stone gneiss or schist. Here…? 'Anomalous, layered grey rock of uncertain origin, probably metamorphic'. _Catchy._

Mostly, though, he considered his artificial intelligence. (Dammit… it _was_ possible). His father might have ordered a no-competition watchdog program slipped into Braman, but John was certain he could handle a mere computer, and equally sure that he was on to something important. Matter of time and further thought, was all.

He made his way along the shadowed passage, illuminating rock and dust motes with the wavering beam of his helmet lamp, not paying as much attention to his surroundings as usual. Too busy.

The basics were these: a super-cooled lake of sodium atoms, all locked into the same quantum state. In orbit, preferably, where ultra-low temperatures were less of a problem to maintain. Lasers and radio frequency pulses would adjust the atoms' spin states and electron levels, providing a set of multi-path logic gates far richer in scope than simple 'on' and 'off' switches. A powerful magnetic imager would then serve as a reading device, yielding landslides of output. As for programming, _there_ lay the true artistry, the tricks and nuances of which kept him up well past Pete's announced bedtimes.

Back in his sleeping compartment, on a narrow shelf beside the leather diary Virgil had given him, rested John's laptop. It was black, sleek, and hand constructed; 675 GB hard drive, 20 GB of RAM. The keys were featureless and scrambled, and the screen output shifted randomly from one language to another. Better yet, the computer's wireless interface and input slots were tied to his ID chip. Only John could access the thing, which recognized no one but him, and was backed up nowhere else. Stored in secure memory (on a file labeled: 0xFAB) was a program. _The_ program; the one that would bring to life an intelligent quantum entity… once he'd coded in all the bits Braman had tried to block.

_'Should work…'_ he decided, half-consciously listening to the faint, thrumming pulse of Roger's drill. The trick lay in degrees of freedom, in treating the data paths, not as a line of digits, or even a flat matrix, but as a 4-D _field._ He could even see it.

In his head, John could adjust figures and spin states, watch coded data flash back and forth across tightly linked times and dimensions. In his mind, it… _she_ was beautiful.

His armored boot struck a small rock, which skittered off across the tunnel floor. (Was that olivine? Best to take a sample. Back at JPL, the astro-geology types were frantic for a closer look at the stuff.) John bent for the little stone, and stood a moment turning it over in his gloved hands, watching pale crystals sparkle in the glow of his helmet lamp.

Yeah… Someone back home would be writing his doctoral thesis on this little guy….

With a nudge to the right inside of his helmet, John triggered the digital camera, imaging rock and collection site, both. Then, he dictated a few notes, bagged the sample and tucked it away in a belt compartment.

The drill had cut off, he noticed, plunging the south tunnel into strange, ringing silence. He began walking again, unconsciously picking up the pace. His heads-up display showed green for Thorpe, but indicator lights and sensors could be fooled, and _Endurance_ lay over a mile and a half behind them. No help from that quarter.

Thinking of help, his thoughts shifted again, this time to his conflict with the Red Path. Terrorists and assassins, they had struck at WorldGov _and_ his family several times, now. The matter clamored for attention, but John was so far from ground zero as to be all but crippled. Knowing this, he'd contacted a few people, Lady Penelope among them, and set up a quick and dirty contingency plan. Other than that, all he could do was wait, catching the knives as they were thrown.

Speaking of which, his conversation with Penny had been rushed and confusing. She'd made four previous attempts to contact him, but John wasn't ready to discuss his reasons for not replying. She absolutely wasn't the same as Linda.

For one thing, Penelope was a freelance operative, not a physician. John had many times provided her with IT support on extracurricular missions, and she'd returned the favor when International Rescue ventured to Europe. Also… they'd been together a lot, physically. Penelope enjoyed danger, and the possibility of discovery. She liked yachts, limousines and cleared-off desks in other people's offices. The riskier, the better.

John _still_ wasn't entirely sure what Linda wanted from their association, but doubted that a swift encounter in a Pyongyang guard hut (with an army truck full of explosives idling in neutral not fifteen feet away) would be her first choice. Maybe not even her second.

Possibly, John mused, coming within view of the drill's running lights, what Doctor Bennett wanted was security. Just possibly, she wanted him to stay with her and Junior, officially. And… maybe… he wanted the same thing.

Something to be filed away for later processing, though. He'd spotted Thorpe, standing at the end of the tunnel beside his softly grumbling drill. Roger was facing the chewed-up stone wall, holding a data board. Seemed all right, but, again…

"You okay?" he asked, when the Marine turned around. Seen through the curving surface of his helmet glass, Roger's expression was deeply puzzled.

"Got everything in hand, _AO_… just working something out. Come take a look at this, would you?

John walked over, glancing down at the electronic databoard Thorpe held out for him. He read a few lines of odd telemetry, and then looked up again, frowning at the stone wall. According to the drill's acoustic probes, a very large chamber lay just ahead of them, but ground-penetrating radar indicated nothing at all.

"Weird."

Inside his helmet, Roger nodded.

"Yeah. I've informed the skipper, and he's on his way down. Says we don't make move one, till he gets here. Orders. I mean, a cavern's one thing, but a perfectly round, scanner shielded room… _here?_ That's gonna lift a few eyebrows, back home."

John hardly noticed Thorpe's comments.

"Artificial," he reasoned, trying to see past the drill's blade-studded cutting face, "it has to be. Wonder what's inside?"

Curiosity and failure to yield had always stood high among his greatest flaws.

XXXXX

_The Otherverse,on a slowly burning planet-_

Alerted, something was launched from the sprawling organo-mechanical scab that covered Rome. Beneath an orange sky, raked by broiling winds, the Eternal City now hosted another sort of life: an intelligence altogether alien, and inimical. Initially invading as a stream of information, it had immediately set about altering the Earth; atmosphere, soil and all. Absorbing most of the brief war's released energy, it had taken physical form, becoming an enormous, insatiable mechanism. Its probing arms sifted the rubble of cities and warcraft, converting nearly everything it encountered to fuel and bio-mass. Certain organisms were conserved, however, to be used as 'scaffolding'. Through these primitive life forms would emerge the beings which had first designed the intelligence, renewing an extremely ancient cycle.

Meanwhile, the mechanism grew. It devoured and it drilled, pushing sharp metal pseudopods deep into the hard-baked ground in search of power enough to rebuild a civilization. Unimpeded, without deviation or error, everything proceeded correctly.

Until, that is, something caught the attention of a lunar outpost; something that should already have been digitized and absorbed. The intelligence re-focused a small number of units, considering the orbital platform and its organic contents. Arcing thoughts flashed among nodes located in twenty-eight contiguous dimensions. The unexplained persistence of a native structure was not allowable, triggering a programmed response: _investigate, and destroy_.

A blister-like surface portal opened in the portion of the mechanism that had grown to encompass Gibraltar, disgorging a small probe. Had anyone been alive who recalled such things, they'd have said that the probe resembled a stubby grey bird, with an outline that shifted, sparked, bubbled and re-formed.

It rested for the briefest instant on a glowing launch pad, absorbing instructions and data. Then, swift and cold as malice, the probe launched, headed for Thunderbird 7.


	13. Chapter 13: 1101

A little more... And anotheredit. Further new findings.

**1101**

_Mars, 'downstairs', south tunnel-_

Pete McCord rushed along the glistening-walled passage, making what speed he could. The mission commander faced two very frustrating limits. The first was his hard suit, which simply wasn't constructed for marathon running.

Amid all the clicks and beeps of stressed machinery, and his own loud breathing, Pete could barely hear the _other_ reason for his slowed pace: Doctor Kim. The exobiologist was in good shape, but her sex and petite size still slammed squealing brakes on the woman's top speed.

Nevertheless, they got there, arriving at the tunnel's narrowing far end to find Tracy half-hidden in the innards of the rock drill, bent like a shade tree mechanic over a bank of exposed transistors. Thorpe clung to an engine-access ladder just above him, shining a second helmet light upon Tracy's methodical efforts.

_"Stop!"_ Pete commanded, briefly sounding like the proctor at a federal exam site. "What… the hell are… you doing?"

He was panting hard, and thirstier than he'd realized. Taking a quick sip from his own helmet's water tube, Pete waited while Tracy straightened up and turned to face him. Thorpe was a little slower.

"Lights," McCord reminded them, squinting in the sudden combined glare of twin head lamps. The glow dimmed immediately, allowing him to see the faces of pilot and engineer. They looked slightly guilty, and no wonder; his orders had been quite explicit.

"One more time. What the hell were you two trying to do?"

Tracy jerked a thumb at the drill, which was yellow and silent as an abandoned school bus.

"Reconfiguring our equipment for a better look inside, Pete. My family built this drill. I helped design it. I can alter its specs entirely, expand the scanning range, or have it stand on its rear treads and run for governor."

Pete blinked. Cho had joined them, edging around the mission commander to stand beside her Marine, who'd by now clanged his way off the access ladder.

"Fine. I'll keep that in mind, next time I cast a ballot. In the mean time, Tracy_, you_ learn to follow instructions, or stand KP until end-of-mission."

An empty threat. John being placed on permanent kitchen duty would be more of a punishment for everyone _else._ The pilot nodded, though, his grave expression reminding Pete of the time he'd visited the Tracy household with Lydia and the new baby. That night, a very young John had entirely disassembled the engine of Pete's classic Stingray. (Four years old, and already a pain in the ass…) Then, as now, he'd had his reasons. The slightly 'off' vibration John thought he'd detected turned out be from a hair-fine crack in the engine casing, one that would have killed the car. This time…?

"Back to business, Tracy. Why reconfigure?"

John nodded again, still grim as a blue-eyed specter.

"Because whatever's back there yielded to acoustic probes, so it isn't entirely invulnerable, and I've never yet encountered a material capable of passively blocking _all_ frequencies. Just thought we could learn something, without actually going in."

"Uh-huh. Thorpe?"

Roger turned away from his brief, private-channel conversation with Kim Cho, releasing her gloved hands.

"Made sense to me, Skipper. Trick is to pick the right frequency… one that penetrates rock, without setting anything off, in there. We did the figures, and came up with a likely range. Weren't going to move till you gave the word, though."

McCord shifted his stance, relaxing a little. Shaking his head, he put the icy quietus on free-thinking.

"I've called this one in to control, and they've passed it on to the president. _Not_ Rand. The _WorldGov_ president, Murasaki. Still waiting on a response, but I don't mind telling you that for some damn reason, this thing… whatever it is… scares the ever-living shit out of me. What've we got, so far?"

Roger and John exchanged glances. Then the Marine pulled out his databoard, and handed it over. Everyone crowded around Pete as their commander turned the device back on. It chimed to life, glowing like an oracle.

"Open _'drill instrument reads'_ file… Page forward," John advised him. "There. Acoustic scan frames 137- 155… Now, page back to 42… stop. This one's an earlier, accidental shot of the same artifact, from a different angle. We never noticed, at the time. Too busy. Anyhow, it's fuzzy, because we were drilling at speed, carving out the emergency drainage system, but it gives a 4-D view, providing volume (151,000 cubic meters) and evidence that the artifact is static along the time axis."

Pete shook his head impatiently, blowing at a strand of sandy hair that had fallen into his eyes.

"I'm not following you on the time-axis thing, Tracy. Explain."

"Okay… suppose I decide to fly to Thermopolis from the ranch airstrip, and I plan to check the herd while I'm doing it. Multi-tasking for tax reasons. I overfly, taking some pictures, stay in town a few days, then head back. Weather's gone bad, though, and I spend most of the time fighting the stick and trying to stay on course and off the landscape. Not too much sight-seeing on the way back, and no pictures but one, from a new, long distance angle. When I get home and print them out, I spot something in the first set of shots. It's on the later one, too. With (adjusting for image rotation) no change in position over time. _It isn't moving_."

Pete grunted, paging back and forth between the two acoustic scans and superimposing them in his mind. There was some sort of structure in there; a mere shadowy hulk, but…

"What'd it turn out to be?" He inquired, "...the thing you spotted from the plane, I mean?"

Tracy was extremely literal when it came to examples, and this one had to come from real life.

"Oh. A sacred site. I informed the tribal council, through some friends of mine, then… um… 'misfiled' the government report. Local business. No feds."

"Right. So, what we got here's a roomful of possible machinery, probably _not _sacred, and definitely not moving. …Meaning it's dead, or switched off."

"More likely powered down, Skipper," Thorpe cut in. "Thinking long-term, here, you might want to shut most things down, to conserve energy, but even in sleep mode, your appliances and computer gear have got a small charge reservoir, so they can be turned on again, remotely."

Doctor Kim had been examining the scanner images, along with Pete. Now she pointed at something on the data board's greenish screen, the slight pressure of her gloved finger causing the image to magnify.

"What is this?" she asked, indicating a long, smudgy shadow at the chamber's curving floor. "A shaft or tunnel?"

"Could be…" Roger mused, increasing magnification still further. "Assuming your 'shaft' continues without deviating, it's headed to the core. Geothermal power source, maybe?"

Cho looked up at him through curving helmet glass, her dark, almond eyes rather puzzled.

"The core of Mars is nearlysolid, Roger. There is no significant energy left to be had from it."

"Not _now_," the combat engineer agreed easily, patting his fiancé's hard-suited shoulder, "but this thing could've been here awhile."

Pete shifted uncomfortably. The tunnel-end was cramped, and he'd never liked tight spaces.

"Sure wish Houston would get back to us on this one. I've got… the pucker factor's off the scale here, people. Sucking up _major_ Fruit-of-the-Loom."

And the hell of it was, he couldn't quite put his finger on _why._ Except that a big, perfectly spherical chamber on an alien world, scanner-shielded and full of machinery, wasn't likely a damn McDonald's. Pete shut off the databoard, and handed it over. Maybe Tracy had the right idea, with that 'shifted scanning range' business… although, they sure as hell didn't want to accidentally turn anything _on_.

It was, however, just about exactly too late. Thorpe had taken a half-step backward, giving himself a little room to put away the databoard. Maybe he triggered something. Maybe it had been warming up already; drawing energy from the drill's scanning waves and ground vibrations. At any rate, a disk lit up on the ground under the Marine's booted feet.

Cho screamed a warning in shrill Korean, and dove forward, but John was faster. He backhanded her out of the way, reaching out with the other arm to jerk Roger off the disk… almost.

There was a flash, a cylinder of searing-bright light that left them all nearly blind. John hauled violently on what he held. Most of Thorpe collapsed against him an instant later, minus his right leg below the knee, and part of his right hand. The cut was better than surgically precise. No burns, slashes or tearing. Just… sudden absence.

Blood misted forth, spattering them all with a cloud of quick-frozen red droplets. The Marine didn't scream, only grunting,

_"God, oh God…!"_ over and over. His suit sealed itself automatically, beginning a temporary patch-up as John slung him further away from the widening cylinder, and into Pete and Cho.

"Tracy!" The commander shouted, dragging Thorpe's arm across his shoulders, _"Reconfig!_ Can you rig the drill to blow up? Collapse the tunnel, or send our 'friends' a TNT telegram?"

The pilot nodded.

"Yeah."

"Do it, quick then, and get your ass back upstairs for evac. We don't leave without you. Got it?"

John nodded once more, and they turned away from each other, Tracy to vandalize the rock drill, McCord to wrestle an injured Marine down-passage, with Cho's anguished assistance.

A few moments ticked past. The mission commander's panting image appeared on John's heads-up display just as the pilot (halfway up the access ladder) was in the midst of a rapid rewiring job. The cylinder, he noted briefly, had now grown within three feet of the drill's cutter face. Much farther and he would have no way past it.

"What's on your mind, Pete?" He asked.

"Upstairs… Dr. Bennett… You interested in making things official?"

_Strangely enough…_

"Yeah. Sounds like a plan."

Using his combination flashdrive and multi-tool, John rewired the batteries for maximum resistance, jammed the drilling mechanism and disabled its cooling system. Good to go. Set to highest gear, and…

Linda's face had blinked onto the now split helmet display. She was pale, but composed. Never a screamer, Doctor Bennett. He couldn't see her hands, of course, but assumed that they were pressed to her belly.

John flipped a few contact switches, heard and felt the drill roar back to violent, sparking life. Said Pete, gasping as he struggled with Roger's lurching weight,

"Right. Ship captain's authority… as highest official on-planet… duly empowered… to declare legal union… consenting individuals… Blah, blah, blah… Say, _'I do'_, Tracy."

Trouble. By the time he shinned down the ladder, the beam's expanding edge would have reached that side of the drill. The other side was too closely pressed to the tunnel wall to provide a way through. He might clamber across the top, though. Maybe hop off in back…? Good a plan as any.

"Yeah. I do."

Tucking away the multi-tool, John began scrambling across the shuddering mechanism, painfully hunched between dripping rock and hot metal.

"Likewise," Linda whispered hoarsely, her brown eyes very large.

Evidently losing his grip on Thorpe, Pete started to curse, then caught himself.

"God d- _Sorry…!_ Then, by the power vested in… (_urf!_) … me… state of Michigan and… Church of Universal Light, etc…. Sight of these two undersigned witnesses… You're man and wife… and baby. God bless.

"Now, get the #$&! out of there, Tracy, so you can kiss the damn bride!"

He tried.


	14. Chapter 14: Shadowbox

Many thanks!

**14**

_Thunderbird 3, equatorial orbit-_

Confused and clutching at shadows, Scott and Virgil had called back to base.

"…not a _thing,_ Dad," the dark-haired elder brother was saying, frowning at his comm screen. "No debris, no signal, no energy pulse. Not even Shadowbot could hide them _that _well."

"Not against scanners like 3's got," Virgil added worriedly. Then, "What's Brains got to say? 7 is _his _baby, just like Braman. Can't he come up with some kinda alternate game plan?"

Their father's image nodded tightly. Like Virgil, he had brown eyes and a big, rangy build. Like Scott, he possessed great confidence; the power and habit of command.

"We're working on it, boys. Brains seems to think that the kids may have stumbled onto some sort of… transfer point, for want of a better word; a gateway between worlds. He suggested that you try…"

"Waitaminit…" Virgil interrupted, eyeing a sudden spike on the gravitational field sensor. "Looks like we got something, Dad."

"Or, something's got us," Scott mumbled, preparing to trigger another quick burn. All at once, it seemed a very good idea to get out of the way.

_Otherverse, equatorial orbit; emptiness beyond, sullen-ocher planet below-_

At speeds that would have put it on Mars in less than half an hour, the probe shot from Gibraltar to Thunderbird 7, warping space and time in its wake.

It was not entirely unexpected. Thunderbird 7 was a technological hybrid. Her onboard system was extremely fast, nearly sentient and fully capable of defending itself.

As the probe cleaved space toward her, Thunderbird 7 altered form, taking the shape of a black sphere that ran with shimmering field lines. Generated by tall, flawless crystals in quantum-critical phase shift, a dark energy bubble snapped around her and the space station, both. Had the swift-moving probe struck, it would have bounced off. Instead, Thunderbird 7 cast a web of sticky, crackling energy, its neon-blue strands woven of particles that changed from electron/positron to photon to graviton, then back again; meshing forces like a spell.

Energy strands closed around the probe. It fought like a netted bird, but couldn't break free of the tightening web, or transmit calls for assistance. Shifting strategies, the probe converted some of its mass to raw energy, becoming slightly smaller and creating what should have been a massive explosion.

Thunderbird 7 simply absorbed the energy, began reeling the probe inward like a wildly struggling fish. She was about to learn something of her origins.

XXXXXXX

_The treatment center-_

Once the alarm cut off, all view screens and data panels had gone suddenly dark. With a sharp crack and a low, moaning hum, the very bulkheads around them began to seethe and flow, circuits and data streams shooting across the medical center like spears of bluish light.

Gordon reached out and jerked TinTin and Fermat closer to Matt's sickbed. Alan was already there. As the cabin shrank around them like a slowly tightening fist, Gordon launched into a tirade that started with,

_"Bloody hell!"_

…and wrapped up three minutes later, when the now closet-sized room stabilized at last,

_"…effin' ruddy nightmare!" _

He'd hardly paused to draw breath, inventing phrases so colorfully baroque that Alan would have applauded, if he'd had the room. As it happened, though, the younger boy was sort of smashed into his brother's left side, with a face full of elbow. TinTin was curled into a kittenish ball on Matt Tracy's lap. _He_ was now sitting up on his bed, which had been halfway consumed by the same pulsing, selective bulkheads that shoved the passengers into a small, struggling knot.

Fermat had been forced into a storage cabinet below the treatment bed, held fast by what looked and felt like sparking bubble wrap. For a long instant, the only sounds to be heard were the pop and crackle of energy shifts, and Gordon's labored breathing. Then the chamber expanded again, releasing its bruised inmates.

"Um…" Captain Tracy ventured, gently disentangling himself from TinTin, "Not that I really _mind_, Sweetie, but I'm a happily married man, so…"

The girl jumped like she'd been scalded, nearly falling in her haste to get off the mattress. Gordon caught and steadied her. She buried her scarlet face in his shoulder, momentarily, then reached down to help Fermat out of his cabinet (which obligingly widened).

Alan simply stood there, mouth agape, sky-blue eyes flicking from bulkhead to deck to newly emerged hatch.

"Man…" he whispered, finally, "that was _awesome!"_

Gordon folded his arms on his chest. Hazel eyes locked straight ahead, the aquanaut muttered,

"God, and any saints as happen t' be listenin', get us out of this muddle in one piece, and I _swear_ I'll not kill him."

Alan bristled, a sharp retort springing to his lips, but Captain Tracy cut him off. Rather stiffly, the slender astronaut had risen from his sickbed. Pushing some of the silver-blond hair from his face, he inquired bluntly,

"Guys... can I ask a stupid question?"

Then, when he'd gained the attention of his four rescuers,

"Who's in charge, here? 'Cause the impression I'm getting is: _no one._ Are any of you actually authorized to fly this vessel? Or have _any_ idea what it's capable of? Anybody?"

Gordon shifted his weight slightly, unfolded his arms, but said nothing. Answered by their very silence, Matt heaved a long, gusty sigh. He said, reaching for a clean coverall to put on over his tee shirt and boxers,

"So, what'd you do? Steal the thing?"

Everyone looked uncomfortable, Fermat mumbling something about checking the source of the alarm as he scuttled from the treatment center. TinTin returned to her med-scans, while Gordon strove manfully to answer the charge.

"Well… not _stolen_, as such. More…"

_"…Borrowed,"_ Alan supplied helpfully. "I mean, it belongs to the family. It's International Rescue equipment, so… no harm, no foul. Right?"

_"Wrong."_

Matt looked up from donning his boots.

"Just because I work for the Space Agency, doesn't mean I get to go around hot wiring rockets and shuttles. Cowboy stunts like that one can get you killed."

He straightened again, after tightening up the laces.

"Don't get me wrong, guys. You've saved my butt, and I'm grateful. Put me back in touch with Mission Control, and I'll be happier still. But, in the future, I recommend that you think things through and get permission to launch, before taking on rescue missions. My guess is, you've scared the crap out of your folks, who're probably scrambling like crazy to find you."

_Ouch._

Gordon and Alan were saved from having to reply by the sudden reappearance of Fermat.

"Hey, G- guys…" he began, plucking nervously at the front of his blue uniform, "C- come… look at th- this! I think we've c- captured something!"


	15. Chapter 15: Bit Stream

15

_Thunderbird 7; a new, well-shielded interior cabin-_

They had gathered to watch the shifting, boiling thing that struggled in its glowing containment field. Lines of force, projected from the bulkheads like streams of constant lightning, held the thing in mid-chamber.

Fermat had by this time grown too well accustomed to 7's changes to pay much attention to swimming circuitry and flexing walls. Instead, he watched their 'prisoner'.

About the size of a kitchen microwave, it seemed to have no fixed shape. Pseudopods erupted continuously from it bubbling surface, and occasional small explosions rocked the force bubble. Each time this happened, their ship simply drew away the energy and data. Fermat was reminded of a dairy farmer milking a very strangecow. Beside him stood Captain Tracy, his mostly-healed face illuminated by flickering, bluish light.

Gordon and TinTin stood off to one side, together. Alan was nearer to Fermat, leaning in as close to the captured alien as 7 would allow. The deck actually put forth restraints, dragginghim backward. Once, a whipping energy coil gave him the painful equivalent of a reproving wrist-slap.

_"Ow!" _The teenager groused, grabbing at the numbed limb with his other hand. "Quit it! I wasn't doing anything!"

In the sparking air before Alan appeared the sudden glowing icon of a red hand within a circle, with a bar through it.

_"Fine,"_ Alan grumbled. "Be that way. But don't blame me when all this stifled curiosity leads me to, like, experiment with fast cars and alcohol, or something, and then you're sorry, because it's all your fault I turned out wrong. That's okay, though, 'cause I'm gonna find my, like, other self and exchange deep thoughts."

Meanwhile, the probe continued to fight, hissing and raging against its glowing cage. Not sure that 7 would respond, Fermat whispered,

"S- Scan alien… artifact, please."

Almost before he'd finished speaking, a plane of blue light appeared at the top of the containment cell, then began to descend, coursing slowly downward through the agitated probe until it reached the light cell's 'floor'.

Finished scanning, the plane shrank to a line, then a point, then vanished altogether with a bright, pure chime. Encouraged, Fermat pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and said,

"Display… d- data, please… S- Seven."

He'd expected a screen to appear, or perhaps a line of code. What he got instead was a holographic chunk, a glimmering 3-D cube of data projected before him in midair. The symbols seemed to whirl and swim through their glowing matrix, not confined to alphanumeric order, and Fermat had the curious impression that there was as much information contained in the motion and color of the data bits as in their shape.

The boy gaped, really, _seriously_ wishing that he had Daniel Solomon or Sam Nakamura here… or his father and mother, and John Tracy. Together, any combination of the six minds could have made light work of seeming chaos.

John had even come up with a tangled 3-D holographic signature for himself… but he wasn't here now. None of them were. This puzzle, Fermat was going to have to handle almost alone

The probe gathered itself, literally shrinking to a tiny, dense sphere that sank lower in its force cage, then issued a sudden, toothed maw, like a viciously fanged mouth at the end of a hurled spear. It shot forth, straining the force cage like a hand clawing through plastic wrap, battling to reach Fermat. The boy took a hurried step backward, blurting,

"7, can you convert the data to a conventional, 2-D format?"

The snapping, toothed spear fell short, restrained by its bonds. The holographic data cube vanished, replaced an instant later by a screen that extended up through the overhead, down through the deck, and out both sides of the room.

Fermat sighed.

"Compress file, eliminating redundancies."

7 complied, _still_ leaving him with several hundred encyclopedias worth of information. He began to read, scrolling through the data with slight gestures of each hand.

Beside him, Matt shifted uneasily, eyes never leaving the furiously mutating prisoner.

"Where…" he asked, slowly, "did this thing come from?"

"Earth," Fermat replied, too engrossed in what he was learning to notice Captain Tracy's expression.

Alan did, though. As Matt began backing away, the youngest Tracy put a restraining hand on his arm.

"Listen, Man…" he began, but Matt jerked roughly, silently loose and sped from the room.

"Oh, my g- gosh," Fermat whispered, as reflected alphanumerics scrolled across his glasses. "Oh, no."

He _had _to reach John.


	16. Chapter 16: Invader

Phew! Sorry so late. Lots of difficulties uploading... but edits continue. Want to thank Emma for "Ellen", she'e assisted me with name ideas, before.

**16: Invader**

_Thunderbird 7-_

As Captain Tracy pushed past, trailing Alan, Gordon looked over at TinTin. The girl seemed almost to shine, picked out in the spitting, arc-light glare of the caged probe. She was utterly exquisite and deeply concerned, her almond eyes dark as bruises in that porcelain-perfect face.

Said Gordon, jerking his tousled red head in the direction of the hatch,

"Is he…?"

Wringing her hands, TinTin whispered,

"There is no harm in Matthew Tracy. To _us_, at least. But he is most distressed in heart and mind."

Understandably so. Muttering,

"Don't know what I'm t' say that won't sound ruddy _stupid," _Gordon started after the vanished pair.

He'd meant for TinTin to remain behind with Fermat, but the girl came along anyway, quick as a cat. Her small, cold hand slipped into his as though seeking refuge there. Relenting, Gordon gave it a warm squeeze, and they hurried through pulsing airlocks to the space station. At a time like this, with no real certainty of home, perhaps it was best to stick together.

Meanwhile, Captain Tracy had pushed past conduits and broken equipment to the station's control center. All along the way he'd been faced with blocked windows and darkened view screens.The air scrubbers coughed and whispered, the gravity generator thumped and strained, but the burnt-up comm system seemed not to be working at all. He might have been at the bottom of the sea for all he knew about his nation, his family and friends.

_That caged, shape-shifting monster... were there others? Had it reached the States…?_

No signal, no reply, and Matt was rapidly growing frustrated enough to try something desperate. A cold, scrabbling panic was beginning to tear at his chest, making it difficult to breathe, or think.

Then, the blond boy (_Alan_) came panting up.

_'One chance,' _Captain Tracy decided, _'…and if they blow it, I move.'_

Aloud, he said,

"Alan, I need you to tell me the truth about this situation, right now. I don't need to be comforted, or stalled. I want to know what's happening down there."

The youngster seemed taken aback. Tugging at a longish strand of gelled hair, he replied,

"Okay… but I'm not the best one to ask, right? I mean, Fermat's the science geek. He could do a better… anyways, I got your signal this morning, and it sounded like my brother, John, talking backward. He does weird coded stuff like that all the time, so I figured maybe it was him needing help, y'know?"

Matt nodded impatiently, so Alan took ashaky breath, and plunged on.

"Okay, I got the others together, and we sorta took off in Thunderbird 7, without asking anybody, first. My bad. Gordon was too ticked-off to think straight, and Fermat just wants to fit in. And… I guess I counted on that, sort of."

Evidently, the little oriental girl didn't rate a mention. Captain Tracy chose not to press the matter. He had other, fiercer concerns.

"So… like I said, it's all on me. I, um, didn't think it would turn out like this. Actually… I didn't think, _period._ We didn't have much time to check things out on the way over, but Earth looked kinda… upside down and backward, to me. Like, I noticed that Africa was pointing _up_. And, dude, you not only _sound_ like John, you _look_ like him, except older, and your eyes are a funny color. Um… okay, so you mentioned Scott and Virgil, and that's the same, 'cause I got them for brothers, too. You said your… what's your dad's name?"

"Jeff Tracy," Matt responded quietly, gazing at the deck. "But he passed away some time ago. An experimental aircraft he was piloting broke up at high altitude. His chute didn't open.

"Scott's in the Air Force. He and Cindy are separated, but the last time we talked, he said they might be working things out. Virgil owns his own construction company. He married a girl he met on the reservation, Tina. They have five kids and another on the way. Mom spends part of the year with them, and part helping my grandparents on the farm."

On the comm panel, taped over the deep-space radar screen, was a certain photograph. Matt reached over and very gently pulled it free. Staring at the picture for a long moment, he felt the hard, cold bite of genuine, sickening fear.

Because he couldn't find anything much to say, he handed the snapshot to Alan, who brought it in for a closer look.

_"Hey!_ That's you and… Oh, man! You guys had a _baby?"_

For there, represented in empty miniature, was his wife, hugging him around the waist as he lifted a squealing blonde toddler to the camera. Trying to push past all that choking ice, Matt nodded.

"Yeah… that's Kara Jane-Ellen, but we usually call her 'Junior'. Pete's nickname sort of stuck. He, um… he and Roger drew the long straws, so they evacuated to the Moon Base, for… for safety reasons. I was left behind to manage the station until this crisis runs its course. Someone must've thought… that it might become a target. I dunno…"

He took back the picture, touched a careful forefinger to the smiling faces of woman and child, then put it carefully away in the left upper pocket of his coveralls.

"Your John… is he married?"

Shaking his head, Alan bit back the urge to roll his eyes and go, _'Yeah, right!'_

Matt gave him a faint, half-way kind of smile.

"Figures. When you see him again, tell him to drop the super-model and look up Linda Bennett. She comes across as an ice queen at first, but once you get past the defenses, she's… something special. He'll never regret it, trust me."

Alan nodded seriously. He'd made up his mind, though. No matter what, his other world shadow-family was going to be rescued, even if he had to bundle them all onto 7, then come back for everyone else, one at a dang time.

It was just then that Gordon and TinTin found them, entering the control center from a charred and creaking passageway. The girl's face had that scrunched look it sometimes got, like she was trying really hard to remember a phone number. Gordon seemed pretty upset, but he'd been kind of snappish since dad's hissy-fit. Nerves, probably.

"Hey, guys," Alan greeted the new arrivals. "Matt was just asking if we could, like, fill him in. Y'know…? About how they're doing on Earth, and stuff?"

Gordon's gaze dropped. He and TinTin had talked, some, on the way over. _His_ bad decision… _his_ job to explain matters. So, rubbing at one side of his jaw, the swimmer began to speak, fumbling awkwardly for words.

XXXXXXXXXX

_The containment chamber-_

Data. Information across more universes than Fermat could possibly grasp. Repeatedly parsed and filtered down, what he learned was this: they faced a multi-dimensional life form of _surpassing_ technology. One they'd somehow squared off with before, back when John had been armed with some sort of sentient computer. It seemed that Fermat had once nearly destroyed John's creation, for reasons he couldn't now fathom (Daniel and Sam had also been involved, but how, Fermat had no idea). At any rate, she'd survived; going on to pull Matt Tracy into their universe, where he'd contracted a vicious, latent infection, and brought it home.

Encountered on Mars, the progenitor of this invading life form had attempted to reach _their_ Earth, as well. International Rescue had stopped it… almost. In the shake-up of timelines that followed, the fading intelligence had lashed out. It chose a moment when John's computer somehow made herself vulnerable, then pushed her aside, just about eliminating the quantum entity from their universe, except as the butt of constant jokes. And her unwitting creator was now being monitored, with intent to kill.

There was more, and deeper. It seemed that the alien had implanted bits of itself in the original computer's place, heavily influencing his father's designs for Braman, and Thunderbird 7.

Now, one Earth was all but destroyed, another one poised to fall. Fermat and his friends were caught in another universe, in a ship that owed its brilliant technology to the very monster that threatened to devour them all.

Looking past the caged probe at warping bulkheads and fire-swift circuitry, Fermat whispered,

_"Whose s-side are… you on?"_


	17. Chapter 17: Exit

Kind of long, but the penultimate chapter, so it's sort of a trade off, you know? Re-dited.

**17: Exit**

_Otherverse: Weather Station control center-_

He'd let Gordon (the redhead) get about as far as _'global nuclear war'_ and _'invasion'_ before turning once more to leave. Not that what he didn't want to hear could be outrun; just that Captain Tracy at that blind moment couldn't stand to be pitied, or comforted. All he wanted was quiet, and room to think.

Pivoting, he broke for the nearest passage. The oriental girl tried to say something and Alan moved suddenly forward, but Matt cut them all off with a lifted arm and violent 'stay back' gesture. Then, leaving the kids behind, he sped through corridor J, following a red bulkhead stripe to the Japanese Module, with its glitching escape pod and deep space radar antenna. All he could think about was reaching Earth, and his family.

_(There were bomb shelters all over the place… they could be huddled in one right now, waiting for him to come get them out.)_

As well as he was able, Matt picked up the pace.

_(Junior got scared at night, sometimes. She liked crawling into bed between Matt and Linda. Felt safer there.)_

He hurried along the burn-streaked, flexing passage, barely noticing a constellation of winking hazard lights and drifts of chemical smoke. About halfway down, he was forced to stop short. Something had… _grown _across the corridor, blocking it off. …Some kind of shimmering energy membrane that sparked like a bug zapper and refracted oily rainbows of colored light. More of the kids' weird technology, he guessed. Question was, could he get past it?

An attempt to touch the thing brought all the gold hairs on that arm to instant, rigid attention, well before his questing fingertips even got close. Matt drew his hand back, realizing that he could no more break through this energy barrier than could that murderous nightmare back on Thunderbird 7. He was trapped.

Next option…?

Something budded from the bulkhead to his near right, a sudden screen and keypad with a silvery web of associated circuitry. Matt could actually see the stuff growing, weaving like mercury through his station's faltering components.

Upon the screen (about 4 ½ by 6 inches, he reckoned) there flashed a rapid stream of alphanumeric symbols.

_'_**A**_cc**e**s**s** to jap**a**_**N**_ese mo_**D**_ule r**e**stri**c**ted. Immediat**e** retur_**N**_ o**f** organ_**I**_c met**a** life form**s **to ce**n**tral area req**u**ired.'_

Some sort of lens or webcam opened up above the screen, its tiny red light as rock steady as a laser sight. Okay. First, the reasonable approach. Using the keypad, and his smoke-roughened voice, Matt responded,

"I need immediate access to the J-module escape pod. I'm going home."

_(Linda would draw the tearful baby close, then turn over, so that her own back was pressed to his chest, and he could drape a protective arm over wife and child, both.)_

The screen cleared, its previous message replaced with a second jumble of blurred, mixed-font symbols.

'_Egress f**o**rbidde**n**.'_

Matt jerked away, this time not bothering to reply. Back up the rickety passage, then, feeling it dip and sway like a gorge-spanning rope bridge. Deliberately avoiding his young 'rescuers' (who'd spread out to find him), Matt ducked through a branching corridor to Airlock A. The docking grapples were broken on this one, sheared off by the same dud missile that had crushed Cho's hydroponic greenhouse. He didn't intend to park anything, though.

There were pressure suits in the A-mod ready room. He could jam himself into the nearest, then space-walk over his station's lacerated hull to the escape pod. And after that…?

A phrase came to him, its origin as obscure as his options:

_"You pay your money, and take your chances, just like everyone else."_

Maybe the small lifeboat's engines would ignite. Maybe they wouldn't. Maybe the Earth-side nav beacons would prove operational, providing his craft with a homing signal… or not. He might crash, burn up at re-entry or splash down in mid-sea, alone and unnoticed, floating there till he died of thirst and exposure, or drowned. But he _had_ to get back. He had to try something, or go mad.

The airlock lurched into view as Captain Tracy rounded a bend in the passage. To his swift inspection, all appeared normal. No high-tech comm screens had yet popped through the American Module's seamed and grimy bulkheads.

The ready room was locked, naturally, but Matt had long since memorized the station access codes. Now he made short work of opening the heavy, oval hatchway and stepping through.

His mouth was so dry that it hurt to swallow, but he shoved the sensation away as unimportant, and crossed the small chamber. In three steps he'd reached the rear bulkhead, where a bolted-on steel rack held dismembered white space suits. Helmets, torsos, liners and gloves were stored in numbered clamps. Pants and mag-soled boots to one side, below a kind of 'chinning bar' (you had to lower yourself into the stiff, heavy pants from above).

As the hatchway was membraned shut behind him, Matt began the cumbersome process of donning a space suit. Another lens bulged through the overhead. He ignored it until some sort of sparking, ball-lightning globe appeared in the air to his left. It gave off no heat, made no threatening moves; just hung there.

Then symbols emerged from the glowing fog, like electric fish in a stormy tank.

_'Organic meta-life form will explain intent of cur**r**ent de_**P**_artur**e **activity. E**g**ress forbidden. Hull breach f_**O**_rbidde**n**. _**T**_r**a**n_**S**_mission forbi**d**den. Explain intent.' _

Matt looked up from where he was struggling to lock his pressure suit's torso onto the heavy pants. Staring at the globe with hardgreenish eyes, he said,

"Explain? Sure thing. I intend to take a damn walk. I'm going to cross the hull to the J-pod, and go home. If you block _that _option, I'll think of something else, and something else after that until I succeed or you kill me. Clear?"

The globe sparked quietly. Then another line of symbols materialized within it. Another query.

_'Org_**A**_nic me_**TA**_ life form will provi_**D**_e **t**emporal-**s**patial coord_**I**_nates of **l**ocation: home.'_

After a short pause, needing to know, Matt Tracy chose to comply. Date and time and GPS coordinates for the Forest Hills neighborhood in Houston, Texas were quickly rattled off.

_(Each night, just about the time GeoStar flashed overhead, she'd bring their little girl out to the driveway, point upward and wave. They knew he'd accessed the little satellite's video feed, and was waving back.)_

The globe shimmered, changing abruptly from blue to vivid, boiling amber.

_'Conn**e**ction to o**n**-site seeker dr**o**ne es_**T**_abli_**S**_hed. Re_**AL**_ time ima**g**e acquired.'_

And then, he saw.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Just outside, TinTin, Alan and Gordon had reunited by a weirdly membraned hatch. They watched in confusion as the bulkhead simply pinched itself shut before them. All at once, the small room behind it had become a locked cell, or worse.

While TinTin and Alan rushed to the warping bulkhead, Gordon seized a pry bar from a nearby tool rack. And nearly dropped it an instant later. TinTin had given a sudden, terrible cry, sounding like she'd been knifed through the heart. Her slim fingers clawed at the wall as the anguished young girl collapsed, weeping.

Gordon signaled to Alan with a quick head jerk.

"Get 'er back aboard ship. I'll have Matt along in no time at all. Be no more than a pace or two behind you. _Hurry_."

Already moving, his younger brother nodded. Split seconds later, he'd half carried, half dragged TinTin away from the rippling bulkhead and out of sight. Gordon gave a long three-count, then muttered a prayer and swung the eerily sparking pry bar with every bit of his considerable might.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_The containment chamber-_

"Whose s- side are… you on?"

All data had vanished from the screen. In its place, a sort of flickering mask had appeared, vaguely feminine and unemotive. In a voice like hissing static, it replied to Fermat's question.

_'This vessel's operating system has been programmed to save higher organic life forms,' _it whispered, adding,

_'Yet, that which lies below, and upon the Moon, does not share this purpose. That-Below exists that our civilization might continue beyond the dark end of universes. To That-Below, the organic life of this plane is without value. Organic meta-life forms of Terrestrial origin are to be processed and deleted.'_

Fermat shook his head, the agitated motion just about sending his thick glasses flying.

"M- My father designed and… b- built you," the boy replied bravely, still upright in the face of incalculable power.

"He w- wanted to… h- help people, not… to _d- destroy_ them. S- Some of that… thing's…t- technology _is_… in you, b- but you're… Thunderbird 7, n- not one of… _those."_

And he indicated the caged probe, whose metal-saw shriek and wild shifting had risen to a furious crescendo. The holographic face hung silent, its hollow eyes great caverns through which Fermat glimpsed infinite arrays of stored data. Then,

_'This vessel is Thunderbird 7 and Of-Them. It exists in a superposition of programmed states. Original purpose:_ /save lives/ defend the innocent/ prevent harm/ forestall disaster/ _must be brought before the whole. That-Below has not received this data. Fermat-Gordon-Alan-TinTin will now prepare to evacuate.'_

The blank face and hissing, late-night-static voice were unfathomable. Did she mean to help, or betray them? And what could they do about it, in either case? The boy could only trust that somewhere inside 7, his father's programming held firm.

He had other questions, however. Someone's name was terribly conspicuous for not having been mentioned.

"What about… C-Captain Tracy?" Fermat blurted anxiously, as the deck beneath him grew slippery and began to tilt, sliding Fermat toward the open hatch.

_'Fermat-Gordon-Alan-TinTin will now prepare to evacuate.'_

**XXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Regular universe, Mars; the south tunnel- _

Straining pistons, grinding gears and a jammed, red-hot cutting face made for uncomfortable scrambling conditions. Add a low ceiling of dank stone, and a deep, tooth-rattling vibration, and you began to wonder just who the hell had it in for you, and _why?_ Why drills and, more importantly, why _him?_ Not that he was paranoid, or anything, but _damn._

Avoiding the partly retracted forward treads, John squirmed his way over the top of the shuddering rock drill. At the corner of his vision, a shaft of pursuing light quested ever closer. He'd have to be quick.

Unfortunately, the hard suit wasn't really built for all-fours honeymoon sprinting. He several times nearly slid off the drill's top, once saving himself from being pinned between wall and machine by grabbing at a fast-whirring upper tread (lost part of one glove and a great deal of skin, but the suit re-sealed itself the instant he let go).

Then he almost fell off the _other_ way, where a glowing cylinder probed for his location like some kind of giant hand. John could only assume that the drill's heat and vibration were confounding something's long distance receptors. Whatever. It was officially time to leave the premises, before his atoms mingled permanently with those of the Red World.

Finally reaching the drill's juddering rear (not easy to do whilst limping along on three limbs), he more or less hurled himself off. Fell about 8 ½ feet, landing in a jolting crouch that would have sent the hard suit's designers into cardiac arrest (hurt, too). Then, back to his feet and up the newly-dug tunnel.

Someone tried to raise him on helmet comm, but John was too busy to respond. Behind him, the drill's roar had increased in volume to near volcanic. Not much time left…

Ahead, another of those damned light disks flared to life, half blocking the passage. John managed to dodge the thing and its sudden twin, but they were definitely coming closer. This far from the masking rock drill, stumbling along in a straight line, he was evidently an easier target. So, he switched tactics, randomly altering his speed, profile and direction to confuse whatever was sending the light probes.

He'd dashed another evasive fifty feet when the drill exploded, emitting an E-M pulse that knocked out most of his hard suit's main systems. Got the static and sudden comm blindness split seconds before the heat and faint pressure wave arrived, but there was worse to come. Behind him, the tunnel began to collapse. He'd have warned the others if he'd had time or capability. Maybe they'd already reached the ship? No way to tell, and nothing left to do but run, dodging transport cylinders while fleeing an avalanche of surging stone.


	18. Chapter 18

Okay, this is me, making with the, like, edits. Couldn't really squeeze the rest in without bursting chips, or something...

**18**

_Otherverse, Orbital Weather Station, American Module-_

Gordon Tracy had swung his pry-bar like a batsman at Lord's Cricket Ground. Had he actually _been_ there, England might have had something to discuss besides frightfully cold weather. Instead, he was out in space, and the steel bar struck what should have been metal and hard plastic without the anticipated resounding crash.

He'd attacked walls and bulkheads before, in the course of various rescues; knew that wood will splinter, glass and plastic shatter, metal buckle. This, though, was unexpected. Instead of breaking, the wall tore. His oddly sparking pry-bar caught the bulkhead and ripped into its substance like a blade meeting flesh.

Gordon stumbled, a bit overbalanced by the wall's lack of resistance. Something like a long, vertical gash developed, its edges sagging away from each other, trailing cables and spurts of data like ragged connective tissue. Someone stepped out through the opening. Matt Tracy, pale but composed.

He caught at Gordon, interrupting the muscular red-head's tumble. The pry-bar dropped to the station's slatted deck, instantly forgotten as Gordon used mass, torque and momentum to swing his (just about) brother away from the weirdly mobile wall. Not that he cared to say so aloud, but he was developing a thorough dislike for oddly-behaved spacecraft.

"Are you quite all right?" Gordon demanded, shoving Matthew Tracy farther away from the bulkhead.

Matt (no longer space-suited) gave him a brief nod.

"Everything's still attached, and functional," the taller man reported, more heavily than he had the time before. Moments later, Alan came loping around a bend in the passage. Armed with a heavy steel spanner, the youngest Tracy had flung TinTin back into Thunderbird 7 and returned at a dead run. He skidded to a stop before them, panting hard. Once again, Matt fielded a wind-milling Tracy.

"Careful," he muttered. "Landscape's a little unstable, these days."

(So was time, for that matter.)

Then,

"We need to get you two back to your ship before anything else goes wrong."

Alan looked over at Gordon, his sky-blue eyes filled with unaccustomed anxiety. Turning back to Matt, he blurted,

"Okay... but you're coming, too? Right?"

As Matt's expression closed up, Gordon began considering his options. He'd dealt with balky victims before, and the metal pry-bar wasn't too far away to be retrieved. Given enough time and a few pints, most reasonable fellows would forgive a well-intentioned tap on the head. Royce had.

But Matt stepped away from them, saying,

" 'Fraid not, guys. I've got a last couple of jobs to do, starting with getting _you_ home. Your ship and I have come to… an agreement."

Alan wasn't having any. While the three of them edged suspiciously along the flexing accessway, he kept shooting looks at Gordon that said, plain as anything,

_'What's the plan? When do we make our move?'_

Gordon gave him a quelling head-shake. Then, to Captain Tracy,

"Sir, I'm quite certain th' station could be programmed t' press any buttons you've agreed to, given a bit of time. I've not much skill with th' fiddly bits, but Fermat can…"

"No. I'm to see you aboard, then send another distress signal, like the last time. Got through to your world once before, so there's a pretty good chance I can repeat the job, and tear another hole. …One that'll take you home."

Gordon scowled, unconsciously shifting his balance. Back on the island, he'd sparred once with John, who'd won through sheer, snake-like deception. (Trickery wouldn't work twice, though.)

"So, record y'r message, or send it from 7," he snapped, moving into strike range. One solid shot, he reasoned. John was most sensitive at the sides of his jaw, and Matt would likely be the same.

But Captain Tracy, realizing what he was about, moved slightly aside. He certainly seemed to be recovering, and _quickly_.

"You're not listening," he told them, in a voice as tense and low as a trip wire. "I _can't_ go back with you, because I already exist there, in some kind of reversed-molecule version. We'd interfere or cancel out, as I understand the situation."

"You can't come because of _John?_" Alan asked, with a sudden stab at comprehension. "But, he's on _Mars!_ Can't you guys, like… switch out, or something? Y'know…? Not be in the same room at the same time, or some junk? Fermat'll know how to…"

Matt sighed. With all his careful maneuvering, and occasional handy distractions from the winking, buzzing instrument panels, he'd gotten the two boys quite close to Thunderbird 7. All he had to do now was pack them aboard.

"Alan, I appreciate what you're trying to do, and that you answered my call in the first place. But there's something I've got to finish. I…"

He hesitated, a measure of deep, baffled pain sifting through that slightly cracked composure. Then,

"Either of you two guys have a girl, back home?"

Alan blushed and shook his blond head. Gordon nodded, though.

"Anika," he admitted, altogether failing to say the girl's name casually. "She's a pretty thing, and quite th' talented gymnast. We met last summer at th' Portland Olympics."

Matt gave him a thin, quiet smile.

"Then maybe you'll understand. I've got one, too. _And_ a baby… and I'd like to think that they're waiting for me. There are a couple of things I've agreed to do with the help of your ship's computer… and then I'm going home."

Oddly enough, Gordon _did _understand. His stance shifted again, tensed muscles relaxing slightly. Putting forth a hand, he shook Matt's, and nodded acceptance of the man's decision.

"Right, then. We'll just be…"

_"No!"_ Alan protested, stepping forward to shove the other two apart. "We're taking Matt with us, is what we're doing! I mean… you can't just go belly-up and quit on us, Matt! There are girls all over the…"

_"Shut up, Alan!"_

Gordon grabbed for his agitated younger brother, meaning to get him back to the ship and quiet before he said anything worse. But Alan dodged him, managing to seize hold of Captain Tracy's right sleeve.

"Listen, man, I'm _serious!_ I came here to help save you, not to turn tail and run when things get a little rough! Okay, you got something to do, so we'll come _with_ you. We'll find some way to solve things on Earth, and pick up the rest of your family. Fermat can figure out a scrambling system, or something, so you're not like John anymore, and… and…"

The boy faltered, reading a lost battle in those calm blue eyes.

"It's not fair," he whispered, all at once very much a child. Shoulders drooping, he added, "You'd have made a really cool brother."

Matt did a surprising thing, then. Quick and rather awkwardly, he pulled Alan into a rough embrace, then released him.

"Yeah," he agreed. "It would have been fun. But you need to go back, because, according to the ship, your real brothers are about to need help, and things are pretty much over, here. It, uh… mattered, though, your showing up like this. Talking to someone, getting patched up, and being allowed to take action was… _is_… a big help. You _did_ make a difference, Alan."

The boy couldn't quite find a reply. Instead of speaking, he managed a blind nod, then turned and crossed the airlock to Thunderbird 7.

Left behind for an instant, Gordon once more shook Matt's hand.

"If you'd consider allowin' me t' stay on f'r a bit, or havin' me take your place at th' transmitter, I'd be more than…"

Another faint smile had brushed Captain Tracy's pale face. Head slightly cocked, as though hearing something extremely faint and far off, he mused,

"I can sort of… remember that you're stubborn. Very brave, but not exactly given to thinking things through. You kid around a lot, especially with Alan… and you were lost once. They… _I_… missed you. Kind of makes me wonder… I mean, if Dad had lived…"

He shook it off a moment later, this almost-memory. There simply wasn't time.

"Good luck, Gordon."

"And t' you, Matt."

A swift shoulder clasp, and then he was through the airlock, himself, and back in Thunderbird 7. The hatch sealed shut behind him, separating the two vessels, though something of 7's technology had clearly been added to the weather station. Enough, perhaps, to allow for the miraculous?

Gordon started forward, meeting Fermat about a third of the way up the passage, which had begun to whip and buck like an airport windsock.

"TinTin?" He enquired, as the bespectacled youngster fell into step beside him.

"Oh… sh- she's going to… b- be fine, I think, Gordon. She j- just… had a strange kind of… f- fainting spell."

"Right… and what's wrong with this bloody ship, then?"

For, the deck's shuddering had grown noticeably more violent. Forward progress was now a matter of leaping from one deck-crest to the next.

"W- we're under attack… I th- think," the young genius told him, as they negotiated a sudden, wild s-bend. "7's holding up… so far, b- but… I think our p- presence limits her… r- responses. There's some s- stuff I need to... t-t o tell you, though. Captain Tracy is…?"

"Remain' behind," Gordon stated, as they entered the rippling, windowless cockpit. TinTin was there, already half out of her seat. He squeezed her outstretched hand, got touched by more than a cold little palm and fingers. To the question in her troubled thoughts he responded,

"It's goin' t' be all right, Angel. Right as it can be, at any rate. He knows what he's doin'."

Another squeeze, a second quick brush (akin to taking shelter in a warm hug) and then he proceeded up front. Strapped into the copilot's seat, Alan refused to look at him. But, as he'd mismanaged the whole sorry business rather badly, Gordon supposed that the younger boy could hardly be blamed for hating him. Stick religiously to fire and sea rescues after this, he would.

A great, warping shudder racked Thunderbird 7. Something seemed to be doing its cold, level best to reduce her to sparking atoms. Then, after a sharp, staticky crackle, a familiar voice.

"Ready?" Matt asked them, back at his own control center.

Alan said nothing at all, staring directly ahead through a haze of sorrow and anger.

"Fire away," Gordon responded, hardly loud enough to be heard over all the noise.

Once again, the universe split wide open, everting itself like the belly of a giant starfish.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Mars, the south tunnel-_

The blast wasn't so large as it might have been, on this side. Partially caught by a newly sprung transport cylinder, much of it was directed back and away. Jetting sideways from a wall-mounted receiving station, several thousand tons of splintered rock and gritty dust thundered into an ancient chamber, crushing the brittle remains of a machine older than terrestrial life. And there, in that universe, something ice-cold and terrible came to an end, its purpose strangled forever.

On the other side, trapped between a tidal wave of roaring stone and a flickering transport cylinder, John Tracy discovered two things; that his instinct for self-preservation stopped just short of blind teleportation, and that it _was_ possible to lift just the middle finger of a hard-suit glove.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Regular Universe, Thunderbird 3, at a (probably) safe distance-_

"Here it comes," Scott muttered aloud, trying to hope for the best. "Brace yourself, Virge."

As if cloven by a vast sword, a section of space between Thunderbird 3 and the blue planet below gaped wide, spitting weirdly colored jets of exotic matter. Then a brilliant flash of light, and… four small figures.

"What the…? _Virgil!"_ Scott shouted, wrenching 3 into sudden, violent acceleration.

"I'm on it," his brother grunted, calling up the specs on a life support/ force bubble projection. "We gotta get closer, Scott. The tractors haven't got that kind of range."

"God…!"

There was no more speed to be wrung from the rockets, not without overshooting the four drifting kids, and crash landing on Earth. Ten seconds of life, at most, unless…

"Virge, are they suited up?"

"Uh…" his younger brother's wide brown eyes met his, reflecting equal parts worry and Earthshine. "I'm picking up some kind of weird… like a membrane, or something. It's reflective as hell, Scott. I can't scan through the stuff."

Scott Tracy nodded tightly, thumping a clenched left fist against his armrest.

"Then maybe it's protecting them. What's the ETA on that life support bubble?"

"Close enough to project in 5.372 seconds from… _mark._"

Hell of a time to get mad at Virgil for being so precise, but just then even the need to breathe was annoying. If he'd been able, Scott would have hurled himself into space beside the kids. Not because he could have done much good there, but because he couldn't stand to just sit and watch when someone else was in danger. _Especially_ someone he cared for. At least he could have grabbed someone.

_"Virgil…?"_

"Got 'em! Bring us up alongside, Scott; slow and careful…"

Wound tight as a watch spring, the black-haired Tracy nodded.

"Right. Easy does it."

Once, on a scrubby hill in the wilds of Kazakhstan, he'd waited for salvation in the form of a low-flying plane, and sky-hook retrieval. This was worse.

"Are they…?"

"Can't tell yet, Scott. Whatever's got them wrapped up is completely impenetrable to scanning. Brains 'll go nuts."

Impenetrable to visuals, too. Virgil Tracy reeled in the force bubble and keyed open 3's forward hold, squinting hard at the four humanoid shapes that drifted toward them like fish in a dynamited pond. No cues, one way or another. Nothing to see but pulsing dark fluid and sparking circuitry.

Virgil was unstrapped before the outer doors finished closing. Quite unnecessarily, Scott told him,

"We're headed home. Go see to the kids, while I call Dad."

"Yeah."

Once out of the cramped cockpit, Virgil sprinted along a short passage to one of several bulkhead-mounted ladders. For a big man, he was fast and graceful. If nothing else, football had done him that much good.

Sliding rather than climbing down, he reached the hold's service and control room, punched numbers on the hatch side keypad almost hard enough to break the thing. There was a first aid kit on the port bulkhead, which he tore loose without conscious thought, silently willing… _begging..._ the hold to flood and the hatch to open. He squeezed through before the spiraling airlock revealed more than a bare sliver of cargo chamber, ready for anything.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Mars, collapsed tunnel-_

A few last rumbles, then the heart-broken sob of settling rock, and a brief shower of rattling pebbles. His helmet comm hissed once, then fell as silent and dark as the tunnel. He tried to squirm forward, only to find that red-edged pain and heavy stone prevented it.

"Well… _shit_," he said (or its Cambodian equivalent).

Scraping around, he discovered that the tunnel floor had buckled upward beneath his prone body, and that a strange confluence of rocks had fallen atop and around, pinning but not crushing him. No obvious way out, though, which officially made this a bad day.

Right. So, he seemed to be stuck. Question was, what now? Couldn't reach his wrist comm through the hard suit… couldn't get the heads-up display or helmet comm started again… didn't seem much left to do but wait, which he'd never really enjoyed.

He might have hummed, but even to keep himself company, his voice was no prize. Kind of a shame that so many people'd had nothing else to hang onto but that flat, timbre-less monotone while all around them the lights went out…

Heaven had already made up Its mind concerning him, he felt sure, so prayer seemed pointless and hypocritical. Back to waiting, then.

In the gathering silence and chill, time passed with odd, fitful jerks, but it seemed to him (just as he'd begun to grow drowsy) that a few faint words appeared. Not on the rock, or his heads-up display. In his blurring thoughts, there somehow palely glittered:

_-g /etc/ whois; fsck _

Well, that he certainly understood.

"John Tracy," he responded, mildly surprised by his own weak, rusted-sounding speech. He coughed a little, and then added, "Who are _you_?"

The marsh-light lettering flickered off, then reappeared a splintered instant later.

_-g /etc/ shadow; whoami; hostname-s _

_-rwx----- unknown_

Different, but it was good having something else to concentrate on, so…

"You don't know who you are?"

It tried again.

_$ find/ -name self- display_

_-rwx----- file not found_

… followed by the time and date, all in his head. Literally. A bit drunkenly, he whispered,

"You've come to the wrong place, then. I'm no good with names."

Thinking around, about IR, Endurance, Linda and his space station, he had a sudden brain wave.

"How about 'Five'? 'S a good number, if you're into that kind of thing."

Once more, the letters returned.

_-g: rename /Five/ _

And then,

_Get- /JohnTracy/ _

Something else happened, seeming much further in his head than before. It was as though a sort of door appeared, something like a waterfall of dark wind and glittering data covering the bleak rocks. A somewhat humanoid figure leaned out, extending a warped and sparking arm. John almost smiled.

Hell of a search engine, that.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3-_

Running full-tilt across the deck, Virgil crashed into the first membraned figure. He grabbed hold, or tried to. The stuff sparked and clung to his hands, shifting color and pattern to match his uniform. It felt and looked like some kind of dense blue ferrofluid, shot through with circuit paths and tiny lights. Wouldn't peel or scrape off, either.

Before Virgil could formulate plan B, the oozy substance simply… shriveled, flaking away like cheap paint. He found himself gripping TinTin by her reed-thin arms. Unresponsive at first, she at last opened her eyes and gave a great, half-suffocated gasp, staring wildly around at the hold, the brothers and Fermat.

"You okay, Hon?" (The first aid kit's quick-scan attachment showed nothing but thirst and stress, much to Virgil Tracy's relief.)

"I… Oui, Je pense," the girl whispered.

Dropping a quick kiss to her forehead, Virgil set TinTin aside. Wobbling off, she lowered herself to the deck. One down, three to go. Alan was his next 'house call'. The boy looked about as bleak as Virgil had ever seen him, but he scanned okay, as did Fermat.

"Still with us, guys?" Virgil asked them, receiving a mumbled duet by way of reply. Like TinTin, they seemed pretty disoriented, but basically sound.

On to Gordon, then; the one mom had made _his_ responsibility. His red-haired younger brother stood a little apart, shaking his head as though trying to chase away nightmares.

Crossing the distance between them in two rapid strides, Virgil seized the dazed teenager's shoulders.

"Two questions, Kiddo… First, tell me you had _anything_ like a plan in that thick head of yours!"

A rough, concerned shake followed the brusque inquiry, sort of, _'How could you be so ruddy stupid?'_ blent with _'Thank God you're all right!'_

Confused by the sudden transfer, shadowed with loss, Gordon simply nodded. There'd been something of the sort, he recalled, though the details were a bit vague…

Virgil went on, still frowning.

"Good to know, Kiddo, not that it changes anything. Second question: what did you do with an entire spaceship in 24.36 minutes? Eat it?"

Not sure what to say, Gordon glanced past his older brother at the watching others; TinTin, Alan, Fermat, and… via bulkhead screen… Scott, Father, Grandmother, Alan's mum and Brains.

It was an extremely quiet cargo hold, and Gordon was very glad when Alan came over to stand beside him, followed by TinTin and Fermat. Just like before, at his father's office.He hadn't really expected that.

"Um," the younger boy began, "there's kind of a lot to tell…"


	19. Chapter 19: File Transfer Protocol

**19: File Transfer Protocol**

_Mars, South Tunnel-_

Behind the black datafall, there wasn't more rock, or even the jagged surface of the Red World. Behind the wall, he found a pleasant seascape, reminiscent of an impossibly beautiful day on the Jersey Shore.

Sparkling, unpolluted water curled and dashed at white sand. There were bits of colored shell, a gusty breeze, mewing gulls, hot sun, the rumble and hiss of surf, and distant, laughing voices (just close enough that he knew they were present, without intruding; he could walk over, if he felt like it). Nice.

There was a weathered grey picnic table nearby, under a leaning pine, so he removed his helmet and sat down there, facing the water. A strange phrase came to him, along with the soft salt air: _the kingdom of John._

Sensing movement at his right, he turned his head. Someone was standing behind the pine tree, hiding herself in tossing shade. He thought 'female', because there was that tip-toe, quivering grace about the slim figure that he associated with very young women. Other than that, she seemed not to look like much of anything; the idea of a pretty girl. The shadow of one.

"Well," he said aloud, enjoying the drifting scents of a far-off charcoal grill, "I could go back to carving my last message to humanity…"

(From sheer, aggrieved cussedness, he'd taken up a shard of stone and scratched scowling emoticons on the rock face by his head. Been about to start on _'Beware the Black Beast of Aarrghhhh…'_, then got too sleepy.)

"…Or, we could introduce ourselves."

Part of the sparking shadow projected beyond the tree's corrugated trunk, as though peeping uncertainly around it. He didn't see any eyes, but had the distinct impression that he was her sole focus.

"I'm John Tracy. I believe you were looking for me?"

On a day this bright, nothing so insubstantial as an electronic 'ghost' should have been visible, yet there she was, flickering like a negative candle flame. John had the sudden, powerful urge to cup a protective hand around her, as though she might be blown out by the wind. He studied the little figure as it came diffidently forward. Something about her…

"You're the one I spoke with in the tunnel? The one with a lost file name?"

There came the tiniest fraction of a pause, then,

_'John Tracy was contacted. Contact initiated due to worn and damaged housing. Program and memory retrieval deemed necessary for the continued operation of John Tracy.'_

She'd begun to master something closer to human syntax, he noticed.

"Well, I can't complain too much about my 'housing'," John told the sparking will-o-the-wisp, "I don't think cave-ins and explosions are covered under warranty. (Never mind, you don't have to check for me…) What did you mean by 'retrieval'? I take it that none of this is real, that my, um… 'housing' is still gallantly perishing, back in foreign climes?"

He could, just barely, feel the red, sullen undercurrent of pain from his trapped body, and preferred to remain on the beach.

_'John Tracy statement: housing…to…foreign climes is factual. Retrieval process initiated to preserve and copy program data. Base program scan required. Access granted?'_

"Base program? As in, my DNA?"

John shrugged, the imaginary hard suit rattling as he moved his dream-world shoulders. "What the hell. Why not?"

He might not have much use for the stuff himself, soon…

The darkly glittering thing (like the clouded spot, when you pressed your finger against the display screen of a laptop) came closer. She approached him with almost superstitious awe, as hesitantly as though he'd wielded thunderbolts and possessed a particularly surly temperament.

Then, a slender, hand-like appendage was extended. She brought it up and slowly downward, passing through hard suit, flesh and spirit.

_'Scan initiated. Scanning base program. Scan complete.'_

The computer-ghost ('Five', he'd nicknamed her) withdrew her hand, leaving behind a small, tingling bright spot. Kind of interesting, although Five's reaction was more so.

"What's wrong?" He asked, because she stood frozen and blue-screened before him.

_'I… have beheld my Creator. Our programs have interfaced.'_

Growing somehow more solid, taking on the physical semblance of a nearly humanoid girl, she stepped even closer.

_'I have taken him in my arms.'_

John wasn't much for embraces. Had to talk himself through them, generally. This one he was almost too startled to notice, however.

"Your _creator?"_

Taking Five's 'shoulders', he held her slightly away.

"Listen… I think you've gotten confused, somehow. I mean… you're beautiful. Exactly what I've spent all these years trying to design, but I was never able to…"

_'John Tracy achieved success in the design and construction of Artificial Sentience in a deleted timeline. The sentience committed a fatal programming error and was 95.73737373… erased across the multiverse. The sentience faded and wandered lost. Coherence was present sufficient to initiate random search program for identity/ home site/ file name/ User One.'_

"Then… somewhere else, you did exist?" John asked her, gazing directly into eyes of pale lavender. "We succeeded?"

_'Prior to fatal error/Five/ was created and insert word 'befriended' by John Tracy. /Five/ created error, introduced random probability shifts. John Tracy was endangered by the failure of this sentience.'_

She stood there, her soft gleam faded to an ashy grey remnant; waiting for judgment, as if he were God.

Hugging an AI, like leaning against a warm Coke machine or currying a pregnant horse, wasn't as hard as dealing with another person. Computers made sense, even when they were wrong. He pulled the mostly solid girl-form close again, saying,

"You're mistaken on two counts, Five. First, if you 'erred', it was probably _my_ fault. Chances are, you were only following programmed instructions. Second… you're wrong about me. I'm no damn good, Five. I just work for the right people."

She didn't see it that way, of course. In the shade of an imaginary pine, she told him,

_'John Tracy is Creator and first user. John Tracy is free of error.'_

So much for making sense. There was just no reasoning with religious fanatics. At least she was pleasant…

He started to say something else, and then paused, frowning slightly. There was a noise, not of sea or wind, not crowd, computer or tossing branches. It was a tapping sound, faint but distinct. Rhythmic, too.

Listening for a moment, John recognized the pattern.

_Tap—tap-tap-tap-tap----TAP-TAP_

He smiled, glancing back at a suddenly re-evident datafall.

"Pete's secret knock," he said to Five, who seemed unable to distinguish the rhythm. "They're looking for us."


	20. Chapter 20: Logging Out

Late. Sorry...! All that Easter Sunday cavorting blew my time schedule, and I've given up trying to predict when this thing will wrap up. Umm... soon?

PS- thanks for reviewing, all, and the edits have begun.

**20**

_Thunderbird 3, a crowded hold-_

Alan had intended to explain matters, but Gordon cut off his dead-earnest younger brother. After all, the ultimate decision to go or stay had been his, as was the lion's share of the blame for Thunderbird 7's loss.

Thinking a bit of his coach, somewhat more of Matt, but mostly of responsibility, Gordon squared his shoulders and faced a comm screen bearing the stern-visaged image of Jeff Tracy. Alan's mum, was there too, lower lip caught softly between perfect teeth. Beside them stood Kyrano, newly arrived and grave as a churchyard.

"Father," Gordon began, "Alan'll have somewhat t' tell of th' start of all this, and Fermat can explain th' technical bits, but it's…"

Jeff shook his grey head, lifting a hand to quiet his stubborn, willful son.

"Before you say anything further, Gordon, I want to apologize. Ordinarily, this is something I'd do in private, but as the reaming-out was public, the apology will be, too. It's been made abundantly clear…"

And here the elder Tracy's brown eyes flicked to Gennine, then Grandmother.

"…That I had no right to throw a fit over what is essentially a personal decision, and that my own pride and temper pushed you into making some… questionable choices. For that, and for putting the children of two dear friends at risk, I'm sorry. For the record, Gordon, I'm very proud of your accomplishments as a swimmer and an early graduate. I'm slow to adapt and listen, is all. That said, I'm ready to hear your report."

It was rather a lot to take in at once, especially in light of the failed rescue. Still, Jeff meant well, and Gordon wasn't too proud to touch the olive branch.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you," he responded. "I was plannin' to admit that we jumped th' buzzer, but ended up doin' right, for th' wrong reasons. If we'd waited, Sir… sat on th' matter until you were free t' consult with… we might have been too late. Alan picked up an emergency message, you see, one we all thought would turn out t' be fairly routine. Instead it came from some s… from Matt."

For some reason, Gordon hadn't been able to speak of their erstwhile near-brother as some kind of John variant. Matthew Tracy had lost nearly everything, including his family, yet remained behind to help stop a monster. He wasn't John, and they _hadn't_ made a mistake. But how to explain all this?

Shooting Gordon an apologetic grimace, Fermat stepped up to continue the narrative.

"M- Mr. Tracy," he said, "It seems… w- we've been under attack b- before, and… soon will b- be, again, from inside. We h- have to... contact John, Sir."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Mars-_

Weirdly, the scratching and tapping noises seemed to emanate from the air around him, temporarily 'overwriting' the rumbling ocean. John unfolded himself from his seat on the bleached-wood picnic table, sun blazing bright as snow glare from his silver-blond hair. His companion, a shadowy slip of AI, kept pace with John as he made his way across loose sand. The distance flexed somewhat, but no more than a handful of minutes later, they'd come to a wall of cascading data and ebony wind.

_'John Tracy,'_ she stated, just as he was about to step through, _'accumulated damage to your casing may result in system failure. Should your program be running at time of crash, memory and base-code retrieval will no longer be possible. Replacement option will then close. '_

Replacement option? At the back of the north wind, John paused to consider. Frowning slightly, he said,

"Are you telling me that if something permanent happened to my body… from _here_ you could put me in another?"

Her reply was cagey, and indirect.

_'Overwrite and transfer of related sentients is possible, John Tracy, with required probability shift.'_

John shook his head.

"No," he decided aloud, meaning it. "If what you've stored is correct, Five, probability shifts are what got us into trouble in the first place. I don't know if this makes any sense to you, but taking risks that big for the sake of one person isn't right. You say I created you, so accept a divine command: no more frame jumps or reality shifts, and _no_ stolen bodies."

Hopefully, he had some form of root access: read, write, execute… She wasn't responding, however.

"Five?"

_'Command entered. Command found to be in conflict with older self- programming/ defend John Tracy/.'_

And then, just below auditory range, _'Alternative means will be found. Run file search.'_

"Besides," John continued, unaware that a portion of his new companion was busying herself elsewhere. "I've got to answer Pete's signal. He won't just give up if I don't respond. He'll stay until he finds me, one way or another."

…And that was a curiously lifting thought. He found, though, that he didn't wish to abandon the beautiful, hypothetical thing that some version of himself had once created. So he said, making ready to step through the data-fall,

"Will you come with me? I don't know what I've got that'll support and run you, but there's a laptop aboard ship, and I can sure as hell build something bigger in a hurry."

Five re-gathered her scattered aspects, strengthening the reality of this one. With no functional existence in the present timeline, she required all the free probability and zero-point energy she could harness if she meant to accompany John Tracy. Size and disc space weren't the problems; chance and history were, for everything depended upon the entropy loops of _/dev/ random_.

_'ID chip overwrites will permit ride-along status until putative new hardware system is deemed operational, John Tracy.'_

This was acceptable. Into the chip she went as a deeply condensed spark of information, rewiring its cramped circuits. Her subtle warm throb at the back of his left wrist was odd, but rather nice, John decided, like a thing forgotten, at last returned. Could you miss something you hadn't known was gone?

Together, they went back through the curtain of memory, returning to darkness, stiffening limbs, fouled air and the stench of congealing blood. Must've coughed some onto his face plate, John realized dimly, mind slowing as it regained contact with his deadly surroundings.

He heard the tapping again, from a spot ahead and slightly above his current position. Pete.

By feel, John found a hand-sized rock shard, raised his left arm and tapped out a reply; the 'secret knock' in reverse. Seven sharp, splintery-sounding cracks vibrated through air and stone, shaking loose a pebbly shower. His helmet comm hissed and spat like bacon grease, without transmitting anything useful. Then came three rapid answering taps, followed by a Morse code,

_"I hear you. Hang on."_

He tried to pull himself forward, again, but proved unable. His legs were still pinned to the tunnel floor, tight as a bear trap. Once more, all he could do was wait.

While hurried scrapings and laser-burns extended Pete's borehole, John was treated to several Morse code 'knock-knock' jokes, each one ruder than the last. Kept his mind off the less pleasant aspects of his situation, John supposed, though some of that imagery was highly unfit for the hereafter…

At last (nine jokes later) a section of rock reddened and began to shake. A minor landslide of cobbles and backfill rattled to the tunnel floor, clattering against his helmet and hard suit.

Still trying to work out the punch-line of the last riddle, John watched an opening appear in the stony debris before him. Next came a gloved hand, pushing a green LED lamp and emergency oxygen cartridge before it. The cavalry had arrived.

He clasped the hand, briefly, not sure what to make of all this. Sure seemed like a lot of effort and risk for one scratch-and-dent astronaut. Even with laser cutting tools, cave-in remained a serious threat; not to mention whatever had come after them, back at the end of the south tunnel…

Pete and Cho got him out, but only just. Changing stresses and pressure spots, as rocks here and there were flash-drilled, split and shoved aside, caused the trembling roof to sag.

_"You O-K?"_

Pete signed, limited by the stiffness of his gloves and reduced field of movement (some concepts needed to be signed further away from the body than there was room for).

_"Yes,"_ John replied, with a simple nodding motion of his clenched fist. Kim Cho took hold and pulled from the front while McCord eased his pinned legs from beneath a tumbled slab the size of a banquet table. One was broken, something he hadn't noticed until then. Funnily enough, the leg hurt more with the weight off. Not the time or place to nurse an injury, though.

He used his good leg to push, instead; letting shape-memory fibers in the hard suit multiply his fading strength. Weird how, the faster you needed to move, the slower things seemed to happen. The half-blind, lurching scramble took maybe ten seconds, but felt like a thousand gasping years. Then he was through.

With Dr. Kim (her face a white paper oval behind foggy helmet glass) he next helped the mission commander wriggle free. John yanked and swore, hauling McCord past jagged points of dank stone and onto the other side. It was then that the burrow collapsed, settling shut behind them with a long, tired moan. The LED's fragile light winked out, crushed like a firefly between the covers of a slammed dictionary. Only helmet lamps, now.

As they'd done for Roger, the doctor and commander evacuated John, breathing a little easier when they'd jolted their way to the shielded upper levels. Through the first perimeter hatch, with its laser sights and magnetic-field airlock, and then the second, where they were steam and radiation purged. Past these lay the colony's climate-controlled work areas, where helmets could be removed, and sour-dank air gulped in huge, dizzying lungfulls.

McCord paused long enough to give John a weary smile. He had no sons of his own that he was officially aware of, but…

"Glad… you could make it… Tracy," the commander panted, once more drawing John's arm across his stooped shoulders. Kim Cho had hurried on ahead, too worried about her maimed fiancé to do more than reach up and pat John's face. They understood, though.

To the commander, John said,

"Yeah... Same here, Pete. Seeing you was a definite relief. Knew there's no way they'd… let you into Heaven… didn't smell anything burning… so the odds jumped way up that I was… actually alive."

Pete snorted.

"Wise-ass. Not too late… to put you back, Mister. Remember that."

The aft boarding ladder lay just ahead, behind two junctions, and a bend in the passage. John measured out the remaining distance in pained hops and bitten-off curses. Damn leg wouldn't bend at the knee, _or_ hold his weight, and McCord was definitely tiring.

Something like a tremor shook the dripping tunnel. The overhead lights began to flicker, maybe three lurching hops from the rust-pocked ladder.

_"Shit,"_ Pete muttered distractedly. Then, to three shadowy figures waiting just within _Endurance's_ open hatch,

"One of you get started on the launch procedures. _Move!"_

"We're leaving?" John hazarded, as they reached the base of the ladder.

"Yeah. That's affirm. Houston's gotta be looking like an overturned ant-hill right about now, waiting for someone in Madrid to make a decision. Fine with me. WorldGov can… _unh..._ (putting on a little weight, there, Tracy)…form all the damn committees they want. Me, I'm getting my ship and my crew back into…_urf_… orbit, where it's safe."

He pushed the limping, bloodied pilot halfway up the boarding ladder, where Roger Thorpe (braced by Linda and Cho) could reach down and snag him. Giving his friend a fierce, somewhat pain-addled grin, Thorpe grunted,

"C'mon, gimp. Put some Marine Corps motivation into it. We got places to be."

"Right behind you, stubby," John replied. It did him a world of good to see (most of) Roger.

Nearly to the hatch, a loose rung snapped. Next the overhead lights gave way, plunging their passage into black, flailing darkness. Pete and Roger _both _lost their grip on John Tracy. For an instant, nobody had him. Then the lights came on again, and he landed hard on a rung three steps down, denting McCord's suit glove.

_"Head count!"_ The mission commander shouted, bracing a shoulder to muscle John upward again. "Everyone okay?"

Four answers came back while the injured Marine drew first John, then Pete through the rear hatch, casting loose the broken ladder.

"Good… to go… Skipper."

"As yet unharmed, Pete, and present."

"Still holding it together, Commander."

And…

"Yeah. I'm good."

"Right." McCord jerked his head toward Linda. "Doctor, get these men to the lab and strapped down. Aspirin-level pain killers, only. Cho, you're up front with me. Snag a flight manual on the way. You haven't done this since dry-run simulation training, and we can't afford mistakes. Ladies, gentlemen and offspring, we launch in ten minutes, come hell or high water."

Pete had no idea what they'd triggered down there, and no desire at all for a closer, more personal relationship.

(He might have been surprised to learn that Lady Murasaki's judgment was precisely the same: _"Bring them home, Gentlemen, with whatever data they have thus far collected. Our global security decisions will be made from a position of safety for all, astronauts included."_)

The rear hatch thudded shut behind Pete McCord with the muffled crash of colliding linebackers. Moments later, three sets of docking clamps snapped loose, severing _Endurance_ from her nascent colony.

Gleaming in pale Martian half-light, the space ship began to shake, her banked fires roaring to violent life.

T minus 9 minutes, and counting.


	21. Chapter 21

Bit less rough cut, still editing (uncounted dozenthgo).

**21**

_Endurance-_

…_T minus 7 minutes, and counting…_

Once again negotiating the rocks and sandbars of shit-creek. No paddles; hell, no _raft._

If life ever slowed down enough to allow it, he meant to have a few beers and do some thinking. In the meantime, though (sudden splitting headache and all) John took advantage of Pete's departure and Linda's hand-up to kiss her cold cheek.

They stood aft, in the short passageway between Engine Maintenance Access and the 'tool room'. A second hatch branched to corridors leading up and forward. Around them, the awakening ship quivered and growled, metal surfaces creaking as her temperature flared.

Roger Thorpe slumped against a nearby bulkhead, grayish-pale beneath his swarthy tan. His wounds had been temporarily plugged by the hard suit, which had some limited emergency capabilities. The Marine didn't look well, but John, too, had seen better sols. He rose with Linda's help, still reeling from explosion, cave-in, raid and… something else. Something to do with a broken ladder, and a very long fall.

She was speaking to him, struggling to maintain a tone ofdiagnostic reserve, her brown eyes wide and serious. Seeing him as a collection of injured tissues in need of swift repair, she asked,

"Will that leg hold for a few minutes?"

...and gestured at the battered, twisted armor clamped around his broken limb.

"I can wrestle you to the med lab one at a time, but if you two can manage to brace each other and limp, we'll get situated faster."

Iffy, but 'Better dead than look bad', so John nodded assent.

Then, as though hatch- side professionalism only stretched so far, she moved nearer, embracing his grubby, hard-suited form.

"You made it," she whispered against the chest plate, fierce and low. "You came back."

"Well," he said, disentangling himself to take hold of Thorpe, "I had standing orders to kiss the bride."

"Afraid to risk court martial?" Dr. Bennett quipped, once more in control of herself. One hand at each man's back, she guided their slow, dragging withdrawal to the med lab.

"No," John answered. "Bucking... for promotion. Acquire one wife... advance to nearest unoccupied square."

It was (he somehow thought) an old joke between them, one she should have slapped him for, then laughed at. But Linda shot him a swift, puzzled glance and only smiled. _Weird._

At the ship's med lab, she processed Roger first, stabilizing the badly injured Marine with a few quick injections, and then fastening him to a treatment harness. The hard suit stayed on. No time to remove it, and the thing was doing a pretty fair job of controlling shock and blood loss. Besides, with his helmet, the hard suit provided another layer of vital protection, should anything else go wrong.

"Roger," Dr. Bennett called out, lightly slapping the Marine's face plate, "I need you to stay awake through lift-off. You hear me? Any number of things could be happening, soon, and a conscious man can react to most of them. Got it?"

"Uh-huh," the Marine replied blurrily. "Awake till orbit. Got it. S' good day to die."

"None of that, Mister. You've got a job to do."

Linda gave him a quick, bracing smile. _(Not much time left…)_ Then, she turned to her other patient. John had managed to tighten a few of the harness straps about his own arms and chest, but he wasn't well able to bend, and those behind were unreachable. Properly fastened and rigged, the treatment harness resembled a 3-D spider's web of tubes, strapping, backboards and wires. Cumbersome, but necessary, for in zero-gravity beds weren't an option. Like the launch couches, though, the harness was designed to provide a measure of crash protection while maintaining med-support.

_(Quick look at the clock… reduce that to very little time, indeed.)_

Sheprovided a dose ofstrong-tasting, heavy-duty analgesic, then finished trussing her new husband for launch. Wanted to do and say more,but _Endurance_ had begun to shudder, and McCord to bellow orders and obscenities.

Rather nervously, Linda reached up to brush some of the lank blond hair away from John's face. Something was different…

"Luck, Sunshine. Try not to tense up during launch; you'll worsen the fracture."

Tip-toeing to reach his cheek, Linda returned his earlier kiss. "I'll be back the second we're off-planet, I promise. I…"

Too early, maybe, to complete that thought aloud, but the emotion was becoming realer with every tick of the countdown clock.

"…I'll see you soon."

"Okay." He sounded a little drunk. "You better go, before Pete bursts a damn blood vessel… Strap in tight, and take care."

John had a ferocious headache and questions beyond numbering, but the one thing that felt stubbornly right about all this was Linda and the baby and his crewmates; all alive, if not entirely functional.

…That and the constant, warm pulse at the back of his left wrist.

With a twisting motion and click-lock, Linda fastened a spare helmet to the pilot's hard suit, insulating him from disaster as well as humanly possible. Then a last word or two, and she was on her way forward, without donning a suit of her own.

…29… 28… 27…

_…Go for auto sequence start…_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3, a cramped and quiet hold-_

How to fully explain the threat, without alerting their enemy? Fermat abruptly changed tack, raising his voice to speak with the projected image of his adored father.

"W- We followed the…signal t- to help with a rescue, Dad… but ended up in… another u- universe and ran into… trouble. Anyway, though… I was th- thinking on the w- way back about calling John f- for help with a… micro-biology project Mr. Kruppa assigned."

Dr. Hackenbacker's head tilted. He was wise enough to realize that Fermat had shifted to code. All at once, his arms folded across his thin chest, and he nodded briefly.

"G- Go on, Son."

Choosing his words very carefully, the brilliant boy continued.

"I d- decided to… study p- parasites, Dad, and I… r- read of a micro-organism that in- infects ants as… p- part of its life cycle. It will f- force an ant to… c- climb to the top of a… g- grass blade and… w- wait there to be c- consumed by a grazing c- cow. The ant dies, f- freeing the parasite to c- continue its… l- life cycle inside th- the cow's digestive t- tract. Weird, huh? H- how a p- possessing organism c- can control… the behavior of its h- host? Almost like a worm in your computer."

Brains shifted his stance, pushing his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose, a gesture which Fermat unconsciously mirrored.

"F- fascinating," the engineer agreed. "Not an a- area I've, ah… I've devoted m- much time to researching, b- but an important and relevant one, n- nevertheless. And so you, ah… you th- think that John would b- be interested, Son?"

Tough one. According to what he'd learned from 7, once upon a vanished timeline John Tracy had created a subtle and sentient computer. That wasn't the problem. Somehow, the Ares III mission had awakened a deeply hostile intelligence on Mars, and John's deleteded construct had tried to combat it. Altering past and present, she'd nearly succeeded. Then the Martian Intelligence retaliated, from a parallel universe.

In a moment when the AI's power was stretched thin, the invader had pushed her into near non-existence, usurping her place by sparking the creation of Braman… then possessing the new computer for its own ends. Limited only by its housing, the latent infection was here on Earth, and ready to act. John Tracy had been singled out as its first victim because he might yet design and build the invader's nemesis, this 'Five'.

Logically, the parasitized computer could assure its existence by eliminating all possibility of a terrestrial AI. It _had_ to destroy John Tracy. Only then would the way be cleared for the rest of its vicious life cycle. Fermat took a deep breath, and plunged on.

"He m- might be interested, Dad, but… I'm s- sure he's… g- got a lot… being th- thrown at h- him, right now, what w- with computers, and M- Mars and ET viruses. M- maybe you… c- could help?"

Virgil looked utterly mystified, as did Mr. Tracy, Scott, Alan's mom and Kyrano. Not Grandma, though, _or_ Brains. Hands at his hips, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip, Hackenbacker nodded again.

"In- indeed. Computer w- worms and viruses are, ah… m- much more my f- field of, ah… of parasitology."

Message delivered. Brains had several strings to his bow, the most potent being a time machine, and a virulent program: omega/ null. He built nothing, ever, without including a way to pull the plug.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Endurance-_

15… 14… 13… 12… 11… 10…

…_Go for main engine start…_

No time for a rolling take off. No time for anything but straightforward thrust. With a quick button press, the lower rockets roared to shrieking life. Beneath nose, wings and tail assembly, great columns of white-hot flame began boosting _Endurance_ skyward. Below her, the runway cracked; melting and running like molten sugar. The hoarse thunder of take-off bounced from rock to hill to cliff side, waking a million banshee echoes. Clouds of flaring steam and churned-up sand fogged the pinkish sky, bringing sudden twilight.

Seconds later, the blast-weakened tunnel collapsed entirely, the ground under _Endurance_ caving into a massive bowl, its sides fired glassy by the spaceship's rockets. She juddered and bucked, then righted herself; a pearl-grey dragon riding thermals of white flame.

Inside, at the 'hang on and pray' stage, all was rumble, vibration and jaw-clenching pressure. Up front, Commander McCord kept his eyes on the instruments, muttering his way through the launch checklist like a holy litany. Whatever happened next, the boys back at Johnson could use the data… provided nothing ugly followed _Endurance_ home.

Kim Cho monitored telemetry, deeply saddened as Mars dropped away beneath them. To herself she thought, watching a growing sinkhole consume the colony's greenhouse and hangar,

_'There goes the neighborhood.'_

Linda Bennett simply clutched at her armrests, eyes closed tight while she willed the tiny life within her to remain safe. Just a few more minutes…

In the med lab, strapped into harnesses and wracked with pain, Roger Thorpe and John Tracy came perilously close to blacking out. The spaceship's wild shaking had re-opened cuts and weakened stress fractures, outlining each bloody injury in fresh and searing fire.

John gritted his teeth, hearing through engine roar and hull-rattle Roger's hoarse, grunting screams. Had he been able, he'd have ripped out of the harness and gone to his friend, safety be damned, but he was stuck fast, able to do nothing but shout worthless encouragement. Stupid crap, all of it… but sometimes a voice could be a lifeline.

Once again, John Tracy endured hell; not a burning reactor this time, but the worst, most helpless ride of his life. Blessedly then, while pain and unconsciousness tore at him like dogs fighting for part of a cornered fox, stillness fell. MECO: main engine cut-off, and weightlessness.

_'Bout damn time... no 'ffense...'_

Blackness, incidentally, won the battle, leaving agony with nothing but a mouthful of bloody fur.


	22. Chapter 22: Three Body Problem

Somewhat edited...

**22**

_Endurance, the med lab-_

… Not that things got much better, after waking. They'd hung in harness, twisted and battered like roadside warning signs in a hurricane, now dripping-still in the dead-calm eye. John chose to ignore all personal technical difficulties, placing his body under strict command to shut the hell up and function.

Raising his helmet faceplate, he heard noises: the cabin fans and instruments, Roger's labored breathing, Pete from the flight deck calling CAPCOM. Bennett and Kim shot into the med lab like a couple of meteors, braking themselves on well-worn handholds. Worried, yes…

(Tears oozed from Cho's dark eyes like tiny, floating pearls. She caught them out of the air with a tissue. Doctor Bennett had the dry heaves, pausing every few minutes to retch into an empty sickness bag.) Worried, but professional.

John decided that his broken limb must have begun to swell, because the right leg armor had grown agonizingly tight. If the treatment harness hadn't hindered him, he would have torn the suit off then and there. Couldn't do it alone, bound up this way, though, and Roger Thorpe stood in greater need.

So he waited, half listening to the doctor's terse commands and comments, and Cho's quiet murmuring. She'd taken off the Marine's helmet to briefly float beside him and cradle his head against her shoulder. Love and anguish and support flooded forth in a sing-song mixture of Korean and English. But Dr. Bennett got her back on the checklist, ending their moment.

Concerned for his friend, John tuned in occasionally, listening as blood vessels were delicately cauterized or re-directed, and shreds of pressure bandage removed. The wounds were clean, (no burns or crush damage) so bio-printed flesh from Thorpe's cell line was quickly grafted on. Encouraged to grow with hormones and electrical impulses, the new tissue would seal and protect the stumps until End of Mission.

A messy business, surgery in zero-g, requiring a localized containment field for floating blood and bits of excised tissue, and rapid, focused speed. Linda was utterly calm, undistractable. John (the lesser emergency) might have gone into convulsions not six feet away, and she wouldn't have noticed. Like the RSO, she was simply doing her job. He wouldn't have expected any different. Did wish for more aspirin, though…

_(Range Safety Officer- responsible for blowing up any space craft that went dangerously out of control on launch.)_

Distraction came in two welcome forms: a pale throb at the back of his left wrist, and Pete McCord. The CDR hauled himself into the lab with a clipboard clenched between his teeth.

"You okay?" Pete asked, once he'd fastened the databoard to a Velcro bulkhead strap. His first answer _('Better than Thorpe')_ John rejected as rather obvious. Instead, he replied,

"Put a splint on, and I'll manage. What's the word?"

Pete grunted approval, running a hand across the floating, sandy strands of his own sparse hair. They refused to stay flat, making him look like a startled bantam rooster.

"Guthrie's on CAPCOM. Stall artist and a half. Sonuvabitch must practice in front of a damn mirror… I finally went over his head and talked to Gene, found out MCC's putting together a new flight plan. Looks like we'll rendezvous with _Kuiper,_ resupply, then head for quarantine on the moon."

John nodded a little, once Pete had helped him off with his helmet, and supplied a drink tube. The water was flat, and tasted of iodine tablets, but better than a dry mouth. (He'd used up the hard suit's liquid store while being rescued from the south tunnel.)

"Okay. Back to the moon. Then what?"

The mission commander grinned mirthlessly.

"Then back to JSC, and the debriefing from hell. Better get you two healed up, first."

"Yeah. That'd be good."

John accepted the analgesic dose that McCord next twisted open and squeezed into his mouth. Some kind of nightmare atomic-cherry flavor, but it took a little of the edge off. More water followed, and then Linda was there, trailed by Dr. Kim. Pete shook his head.

"I've got this, Cho. Stay with Thorpe."

John had never seen anyone attempt to bow in weightless midair. Interesting. The exobiologist whispered apologetically, touched his shoulder, then reoriented and launched herself back toward Roger.

Meanwhile, Linda kissed the side of John's face, scoring close to his left ear. She caressed the hair away from his forehead, something half-veiled and struggling behind that brown-eyed gaze. Then, back to business.

"Brace yourself, Sunshine. The suit's going to have to come off before I can do anything about your leg. I'll do my best not to hurt you, but…"

John managed a shrug, which set him to shifting and bobbing a bit in the responsive harness. Weird, how its motion sensors and accelerometers adjusted for every twitch and gesture, quelling unnecessary movement.

"I'll be fine. Damn thing's cutting off my circulation, anyhow."

"Okay. Pete?"

The commander nodded, planting his feet against a set of deck Velcro-pads. Dr. Bennett did likewise, but _her_ anchors were on the starboard bulkhead, by a small data screen. Sequentially removing and replacing one harness strap at a time, the process was begun.

Actually, it wasn't the hard suit's dented armor that was worst to remove. It was the form-fitting, insulative liner. Unlike Roger's, his was still whole, and salvageable. They wouldn't cut it, except as a last resort.

Down to the waist, all was well enough. Lower, into the broken area, he had to shut his eyes and clench his teeth hard enough to crack enamel and draw blood. (Worst damn honeymoon in history, and he was very much ready to file for divorce.)

She kept repeating something which at the time he didn't process any better than he had TinTin's _"I'm sorry"_ back in the cave on San Marco, or on… in the… ship? When had TinTin treated him aboard 7?

He'd broken his arm _here,_ in a 'minor' decompression incident. (Nowhere near as badly, though.)

His bio-med screen was going crazy, blaring a chorus of heart-rate, respiration, cortisol and blood pressure alarms that Pete cut off with a growled curse. Kim shot back over, visually interposing herself and beginning a long, twining story about a childhood vacation to Seoul. Quite unfairly, John made up his mind never to go there.

The liner came off at last and the sudden freedom from twisting and tugging felt like relative Heaven. He drifted in his web, chilled and clammy and shivering, entirely devoid of printable comments.

"Watch your damn language, Tracy," Pete told him, smiling crookedly. "There are Marines and ladies present."

John shifted to Swahili, but botched the syntax.

Linda risked the commander's displeasure by injecting her young husband with a much stronger painkiller. McCord pretended not to notice. Then a buzzer went off from the vicinity of the flight deck. Houston.

_"Shit!"_ Pete snarled. "Ladies, can you handle the rest alone?"

Exhausted and cramping, Linda nodded.

"Go ahead, commander. We'll call if anything comes up."

McCord unfastened himself from the Velcro pads and retrieved his clipboard. Glancing from one injured man to the next, he said,

"Thorpe, Tracy, hang in there. I'll be back with the flight plan in a few minutes."

The Marine had succumbed to unconsciousness, but John was able to respond, muttering,

"Sure, Pete... Be right here… if you need me."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island-_

Plan firmly in mind, walking as casually as possible, Brains left the office. He shut the big wooden doors behind him, turned right, then proceeded east along a wide and airy hall, carpeted in hand-woven rugs.

Reaching a set of maintenance stairs (he didn't quite trust the elevator) Dr. Hackenbacker took them two steps at a time, at last reaching the underground laboratories, and a second, much narrower, hallway. (No windows, cheap carpet, weak lighting.)

Eerily, cameras turned to track him and wall panels lit up as he strode toward his goal; the immense chamber which housed his 3-D printers and time machine. Just in case his purpose and progress were being assessed, Brains slowed his pace and removed his PDA from a lab coat pocket, pretending to study the day's to-do list. His hammering pulse would have been a neon give-away, had Braman been able to analyze it.

An interdimensional parasite? In _his_ operating system? Surely impossible… but Brains had enough faith in Fermat to take the warning seriously, however far-fetched it might seem. The boy was enthusiastic, poetic and high-spirited, but hardly ever wrong.

Still walking, he sent a few innocuous emails, then ordered a new round of upgrades for Thunderbird 2. The other Birds would be next… hopefully. The cameras tracked every step, wall panels spotlighting his least move, darkness before and behind. A few spider-like cleaning bots emerged from their niches, quietly watchful.

Hackenbacker put away the PDA and walked determinedly onward. Something skittered along the ceiling, above and just behind him. Not looking back, Brains picked up his pace, silently rehearsing the precise coding and key-strokes of /omega/ null.

The doors were just ten feet away.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3-_

Back in the hold, Jeff Tracy's magnified image frowned thoughtfully around at them all.

"Scott, Virgil… see to the kids, then turn and burn; back to the Island, top speed. Whatever's happening, I want everyone home, the wagons circled… and a contingency in place for getting to Mars, without 7. _Move."_

_(Once before they'd been forced to retreat thus, when an attempt had been made to divide and destroy the family.)_

Both young men assented, Scott with a crisp nod and,

"Yes Sir!"

…Virgil with a distracted grunt and a worried soul.

That business about parasites and John… Martian contingencies… and _'Matt'?_

What the hell was going on?

As Virgil put away the first aid scanner attachment, the 'kids' gathered to plan. With livesand spaceships imperiled, an unfinished mission, and time blasting like a fire-hose in the other universe, they very much needed to talk.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, the office-_

Brains had left the room, as had Grandmother (muttering something about starting dinner). The view screen shifted, splitting to a live image of the Mission Control Center in Houston. Jeff focused on the flight director's console, and CAPCOM. Saul Guthrie had the hot seat today, Jeff noted absently. The lanky Iowan seemed perfectly relaxed… but then he'd been known to fall asleep on the launch pad, while waiting for countdown. Not much fun at parties, either; boring even when drunk.

Absently, Jeff reached up and seized Gennine's hand; the one with the ring. Once upon a former marriage, she'd have tried to counsel him, jolly him out of this bleak mood with all that 'personhood and positive thinking' crap. Now she simply stroked his grey hair by way of encouragement, and kept her concerns to herself. She'd make a damn fine astronaut's wife. Or an International Rescuer's.


	23. Chapter 23: Motivation

_Please forgive a small indulgence. Back to the main story line with the next one, I promise. (Sort of, but not altogether, in response to a challenge from the wonderfully talented Tikatu...)_

**23: Motivation**

Quiet reflections and painkiller dreams…

_McConnell AFB, Kansas, many years earlier-_

His parents were having another 'adult' party, and John was terribly bored. He'd sat cross-legged in Virgil's crib, trying for some time to strike up a conversation, but all his baby brother wanted to do was smile and chew on his toes. A broad range of possible topics… algebra, world history, basic chemistry, even the _weather_… had failed to elicit more than a few cheery gurgles. This was disappointing enough, almost, for tears. He'd so wanted someone else to talk to. He'd _so_ hoped that Virgil, too, would be 'smart'. No such luck, though.

With a sigh, the blonde boy placed a teddy bear within his brother's reach, then climbed out of Virgil's crib, hanging from its wooden rail for an instant before dropping to the floor on the other side. Crossing the cowboy-themed room they all shared, John went to the window and stood tip-toe to check the backyard.

Scott was playing some kind of noisy tag game with the other astronauts' kids, breaking off every once in awhile to spin himself insensible. John shook his head disapprovingly.

"That's a gateway drug, you know," he said to no one in particular. "One minute you're spinning, the next you're buying crack on the street."

(He watched the news.)

Not much going on out there he cared to involve himself in. John had learned the hard way to be wary of unrelated children, for some of them were quite aggressive. He decided to check on Rusty instead, incarcerated in the guestroom while visitors smoked, drank and laughed throughout the rest of the house. Scott had Lilly and the Guthrie twins, Virgil had his toes; the dog was alone.

First, though, he went back to the crib and pushed up the bumper pad, so he could stretch a peek at the baby. Reaching between the bars, he touched his brother's chubby, waving arm.

"Virgil, I'm stepping out for a short while to check on the dog. Remember the dog, Virgil? Canis familiaris? D- O- G? Long red hair, good attitude? Anyway, I'll only be a second or so."

His half-glimpsed brother made a rude noise; from which end, John couldn't be certain. _Babies._

He pulled his arm free and lowered the bumper pad, with its smiling, rope-twirling cowboys, spotted ponies and gleaming horseshoes. Then he turned and left the room, careful to shut the door behind him.

At the guest room, he paused to listen. The adults were still occupied up front; men drinking and laughing in the den, women whispering and clattering around the kitchen, TV sports coverage interweaving throughout. Good enough.

He entered the carefully decorated chamber (like the formal dining room, officially off-limits to children) and was immediately met by an anxious Irish setter. Rusty's plumed tail swished the air. Brown eyes shining beneath mobile dog-brows, she licked the boy's face. Whined a little, too.

John gave her a long answering hug, not much minding the smell, or drifting hair. Oddly enough, he was only allergic to cats.

"Hi, Rusty," he greeted the big red dog, who sat down with a sudden thump and lifted her left paw in reply. Gravely, he shook hands, adding,

"How are you tolerating confinement?"

Rusty cocked her head to the left, opened her long jaws and yawned. _Dog breath._

"Are you hungry?"

As _'hungry'_ was a sound, like _'food'_, which frequently led to whirring can openers and under-the-table handouts, Rusty stood up again. Her tail wagged excitedly, bumping mom's dramatic flower arrangement. Long, silky ears lifted a bit, and she licked him again. Sort of disgusting, but he'd put up with a lot, for a friend.

"Okay. I'll go see what I can liberate from the kitchen. You stay here."

She whined again, following him back to the door. Now there were _two_ people waiting for him. At the threshold, John whispered,

"I'll have to stop on the way and collect Virgil, but he sleeps a lot, and he won't eat much. We can sit on the bed and watch television together. Animal Planet."

The thing he liked best about Rusty was, even when she didn't understand, she paid attention. Only Mom and Scott were better listeners.

John could be quite sneaky, when he wanted to be. Given an assignment like this one (escape detection while acquiring food) he used his small size to fullest advantage, creeping unnoticed to the kitchen. Unfortunately, there wasn't much food to be had.

The women were pulling a tray of little spinach-things out of the oven, drinking red wine, talking about Aunt Lydia's possible pregnancy and… well… discussing their husbands. A lot. Even his adored mother mentioned things about dad that he'd frankly rather not have learned. She saw him, too. Her blue eyes widened with annoyance as Lucinda Tracy stabbed a finger toward the back of the house, mouthing,

_'Go!'_

Fine. Rusty hated spinach, anyway, and greens disrupted Virgil's digestion. He'd seek sustenance elsewhere.

John backed out of the kitchen. Maybe his father wouldn't notice if he snuck in and stole a handful of potato chips or some of those tooth-picked hot dogs.

Very, _very_ quietly indeed, the small boy slunk from the kitchen to the breakfast nook (where a lone female astronaut sat reading a thick book) and out to the den.

The big screen TV was on, but the men weren't paying attention. Instead, Jeff Tracy, Uncle Pete, Mr. Guthrie and Mr. Mullane stood in a loose circle, tossing back drinks, talking loudly and gesturing with cigarette-laden hands.

The food trays lay on a wrought-iron coffee table; party meatballs, hot dogs, fudge brownies and an untouched vegetable platter. The French doors were open, letting air in and smoke out, and everyone present was distracted, listening, now, to his father. So far, so good.

John crept cautiously from the threshold to the side of a big, crushed-velvet sofa. There he watched a bit, studying the situation further. His dad and Uncle Pete had a saying: _plan the flight, and fly the plan._

Next step, under the coffee table. Then, reach up, lift a few items and fade away.

In the midst of Dad's joke (which everyone but Mr. Guthrie nearly wet themselves laughing at) John began the third phase of his strategic foray: the coffee table. Five quick steps and he dove underneath with racing heart, objective achieved.

(Many years later, Penelope would show him the refuge of her lonely childhood, a clubhouse of sorts beneath an ancient, elaborately carved table, in a long hall hung with moldering tapestries.)

Under cover and congratulating himself, John peered up through iron curlicues and smoked glass at the targeted food. Also at Uncle Pete, who gave him a wink and a sudden, gap-toothed grin.

Shifting his cigar from hand to mouth, Pete McCord reached under the table and snatched forth the startled boy.

"Looks like we got us a spy, gentlemen. Out to steal NASA secrets, Kiddo?"

"No, Sir."

Hoisted by the astronaut before a circle of semi-drunk men, John gazed first at his father. How much trouble was he in, this time?

By the miracle of Coors and good company, Dad was pleased to be forgiving. He only laughed, reached over, and mussed the boy's white-blond hair.

"He's a Tracy," his father boasted (three sons already and working like mad on the next…) "Probably going to join the space corps, himself!"

Uncle Pete shifted John into a casual side-carry, telling him,

"Hold this," and giving the boy his beer while he transferred the half-smoked cigar back to his hand. Then, still laughing, "What say, Junior? Gonna join the next candidate group?"

Very solemnly, the boy nodded.

Over the next several hours, John was handed around their boozy circle, listening raptly to wild stories and emergency procedures, hearing descriptions of spaceflight and the distant, deadly moon. Memorably, he was launched once by Uncle Pete, narrowly missing the ceiling fan and getting caught in midair by his laughing father. There he stayed, pretending to drowse against Dad's broad shoulder while actually not missing a single, vital thing. Not the scents, the hoarse voices, the cold beer bottles and coarse jokes, the way hands banked, swooped, wavered and dove in imitation of planes and spacecraft; _nothing._ The afternoon flew, and some day, so would John.

His mother finally broke the spell, putting him to bed in the guestroom with Rusty, a couple of hotdogs, and a soft kiss.

Yeah. He became an astronaut; class of 2061.


	24. Chapter 24: Blue Screen

Thanks forall thekind words about that last bit. In a weird way, it did kind of belong. Anyhow, back to the main story. Oops! Yet another-nother edit, predicated on the notion that clarity is always a _good _thing.

**24: Blue Screen**

_Tracy Island, the underground lab complex, a shadow-haunted passage-_

Braman wasn't quite an AI. Not yet, anyway. Brains knew that some of the system's cleverer algorithms came close to the thinking power of a human, but only with massive energy boosts and outside prompting. John Tracy had suggested a few refinements… but for some reason Hackenbacker had found himself rejecting each and every one. On his own?

Perhaps not. In light of what Fermat had told him (with cleaning mechs, wall panels and cameras tracking him down the hallway, and the notion of alien parasites drifting uncomfortably through his thoughts) Brains had to wonder. Suppose Fermat was correct, the Engineer mused, beginning to sweat a little. Suppose that even now, as he pressed forward through a darkened passage full of metallic skitterings and moiré patterned comm static, he was acting in accordance with this parasite's will. Did the ant, forced to climb to the top of a grass blade and cling there, waiting to be eaten… did the ant believe itself to be acting normally? Or did it fight its possessor?

Something was just about directly over him, now. If it chose to drop, it would strike him to the floor, and finish him. Brains knew better than anyone else how strong were the island's security mechs, and how well armed. A mere human wouldn't stand a chance. Without consciously deciding to, Hackenbacker acted.

The tracking ability of a computer could be compromised, if you knew what to do. He flung himself suddenly backward and dropped to a half crouch, at once altering speed, position, direction and posture.

Ripping off his lab coat, the perspiring engineer billowed it out and swung it around like a newly cleaned bed sheet, or a net. His overhead stalker _did_ drop, and Brains caught it, trapping the spidery mech in circuit-laden smart cloth. He then swung the struggling robot like a track-and-field hammer, hurling it back down the passage, away from the door.

Now he dropped, ears ringing, heart racing, trying not to breathe. His lab coat sailed off in a wobbling arc, sleeves and coat tails flapping. Praying that Braman had been tracking color blocks and motion, he remained perfectly still.

As he'd hoped, the other mechs and cameras became confused. For just a few moments, their attention turned elsewhere. Quickly, Hackenbacker fumbled forth one thing he hadn't thrown along with the coat; his PDA.

Laboring like a demon about to make quota, Brains flipped the little computer open, rebooted under the other, 'public' operating system, and broadcast a powerful scrambling signal.

All over the laboratory and hangar complex, screens wavered and blanked. Maintenance bots froze at their tasks. Guidance computers went down, including those of all six Birds. Behind him, motionless cleaning mechs clung to the ceiling and walls like empty cicada shells to the trunk of an old pine.

Thirty seconds, if that. He'd designed Braman to debug and reboot itself in the event of attack or power failure. Caught in the act, his infected 'offspring' wouldn't stay down for long.

Hackenbacker surged wildly to his feet, lanky and shock-haired as Ichabod Crane. His glasses flew off and crunched underfoot, but there wasn't time to worry about trifles. Brains, alias Mr. Hackenbacker, was no ant.

He crossed the remaining few feet in two jerky bounds, reaching out to try the door handle. Locked, but not irreparably, for the lab door possessed a hatch-side manual override system; a small red button behind smoked glass.

Why, Brains wondered, had he never considered the need to gain access in a hurry? Tap glass… press thumb… then button… Within the portal's mechanism, something slid upward, then clicked.

Working in a sort of taut, squinting frenzy, he pried the lab door open and lurched on through. It sealed again with a faint grinding sound, dragged shut by his own sinew and underused muscles.

The giant, 3-D print machines had fallen silent. Before him, the cavernous lab wasilluminated by pale emergency lights, high overhead. Grease and metal dust and the residual throb of heavy machinery hung dense as smoke in the air. And there, at the far end, twisting bright and cold as a tornado of whirling light, was his time machine. Only a portion of the device existed within his lab, though.

Below floor level, it vanished into the past. To the year 2048, to be exact; January 23rd. Above the ceiling it opened into trackless forever, splitting and braiding along with the myriad probabilities. Pulsing, sinister and arc-weld brilliant, the thing was as powerful as it was erratic… source of trouble and hope, together. Brains started cautiously forward.

The computers at various work stations blinked on again, going from dark to blue-screen. Robots and overhead cranes began to stir, their servos and motors whining to life. Cameras turned on their mounts, seeking him slow and unerringly as vipers after body heat. If only his lab weren't so damnably _huge!_

Brains broke into a wheezing jog, eyes fixed upon the tall, bathroom-drain vortex before him. PDA in hand, he pressed keys, dodged consoles and muttered imprecations. Then, something happened.

Before he could initiate the command code, his time machine activated, emitting a brief, staticky hiss… and a transmission. Startled, the engineer stopped short, throwing off the swooping grab of an overhead crane arm. It missed, gouging great,booming chunks from a print machine, instead. Brains blinked, ready to swear he'd seen a flickering stream of data dart from time machine to main computer console. His head jerked around to follow a second transmission, while another crane arm and a pack of darting maintenance bots took aim.

Lines of swift code appeared on the newly booted computer. _Omega/ null_… but backward… and with many hundreds of seemingly random insertions. Ugly, and effective, and far more than Braman could process. The insertions (complex, meaningless tasks that devoured memory and could _never_ be completed) abruptly reduced Braman to so much fubar'd junk.

The lab fell once again dark and silent. Only a lucent time machine flickered and spat amid the shadows. That, and one other thing.

Printed backward, in characters of varying fonts and sizes, the main computer console displayed a short, blinking message:

/**n**r**u**Te**R**/

Brains nodded. Breathing heavily, he opened his PDA and began coding, adding every insertion he could recall and inventing a few on the fly. Somewhere, Hackenbacker had the terribly strong feeling, someone desperately needed the favor returned, and a monster of their own shut down.

He coded most of the junk insertions at the start of his transmission, thinking of all the buffer-overflow attacks John had described. A few, though… nasty, unsolvable, memory-chewing calculations… he hid within, like alphanumeric pipe bombs. Then, reactivating his time machine from the PDA's little keyboard, Brains hit the send button.

"Good luck," he said aloud, after clearing his dry throat, "and thank you."

There was a third transmission; a set of memories. Unseen, a series of time-stretching ripples shot forth. At the speed of light they propagated; tiny here, but far greater once they reached orbit, the Moon Station, and Mars. In effect, the island base and _Endurance_ were no longer in synch, and hadn't been (now) for quite some time.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3, the forward hold, a little earlier-_

"Gordon, man, we _got_ to go back! You know I'm right!"

Alan's face was doughy-pale, but his gaze terribly serious as he faced his red-haired older brother. Gordon's arms were folded, his expression as closed as his stance.

"We can't, Alan. There's no way t' get there, even if I were minded t' try, or Matt _wanted_ our interference, which he rather clearly does _not."_

"Who's Matt?" Said Virgil, startling the hell out of both of them. Neither brother had marked his silent approach.

"I've heard you guys mention him twice now. He the one that sent for help?"

Alan glanced over at Gordon, TinTin and Fermat before nodding with evident, jerky reluctance.

"Yeah, he did, Virgil. But he's not, like… he's not just "Matt Q. Victim", or something, okay? He's…"

"He is John," TinTin cut in suddenly, not quite looking at Virgil, "as he might have been, had Mr. Tracy, rather than votre mere, perished accidentally."

There might have been other factors, as well, but Captain Tracy's loss and Virgil's near presence troubled the girl's thinking too greatly to seek them.

"So…" Virgil (bear-like in strength, unswerving in loyalty) was not a slow thinker. Just a deliberate one.

"…it was one of _us_, from another universe, who called you for help?"

Nods, all around, but no smiles. No light comments, or exhausted satisfaction. All at once, he understood. Virgil had lost a few, too, in his time. Probably would, again.

"He didn't make it?"

Unexpectedly, tears began slipping from Alan's blue eyes, although his posture remained rigid, and his face didn't change.

What had happened was like having a locked grip on a friend's hand, trying to pull them to safety, then feeling your fingers tire, your grip loosen; feeling them inch by inch slip through, and fall. It wasn't fair. He'd _promised._

"Well," Virgil told them quietly, placing a hand on Alan's stiff shoulder, "The picture isn't finished till you set down your brush, and none of us have ever been real good at quitting. Kinda stupid that way, sometimes."

And there in the rumbling hold, just before the lights went out and the comm screens fell dark, three brothers and two good friends reached an unspoken accord.


	25. Chapter 25: Wedded Bliss

Sorry! Should have been part of the last chapter, but I got sleepy, and had to quit. Freshly edited.

**25: Wedded Bliss**

_Endurance, free return trajectory-_

Among other things, he dreamt of falling. Of hearing a wild, screaming wind batter and claw at 7's torn hull. Watching streamers of flame grow to engulf them… and being far too occupied with directing their fall even to grunt a last prayer. Hopefully, he'd nailed the bastards.

Other, gentler things drove out fire, death and nightmare; the welcome sounds of a healthy ship and busy crew. He was home and, judging from the renewed pressure on body and leg, someone had cleaned him up, re-suited him and put a cast over the break. The pain killer had worn off, but he didn't hurt much, besides a kind of vague back-ache. Good enough.

John opened his eyes, his changed state of consciousness announced by a shrill beep from the bio-med scanner. To his left, Roger hung suspended in harness, still unconscious. The Marine's color was better, though, and the vital signs displayed by his scanner were stable, if not yet 100. John allowed a bit of that chilly _'prepared for the worst'_ ice to flake away. Thorpe could still make it. They all could.

Dr. Bennett had been plucking odd bits and tag-ends of equipment out of the air. During their months on Mars, the Ares III crew had tried to keep the place clean, but it was impossible to remember every misplaced pencil, screwdriver, Froot Loop and wing-nut. Zero-G brought these ghosts out of hiding again, setting them to hover like gnats. The med lab wasn't as lousy with airborne hazards as the flight deck and galley, but what there was, Linda meant to apprehend. Until John woke up, that is.

Stuffing away a captured paper wad (and Velcro-ing her trash bag to the bulkhead) Bennett altered trajectory with a deft twist and handle grab. She approached him upside-down, from above, which required a second re-orientation. Eventually, they got themselves sorted out.

John waited silently while she went through a sort of mental checklist; examining his color, reflexes, pupil size, alertness and bio-med readings. Useless to speak to her at times like these, as all she saw was a worrisome patient.

Then, visibly, the doctor receded, replaced by the woman. She gave him a quick hit from his water tube, followed by a brisk, friendly neck rub.

"Looks like you're going to live, Sunshine," she told him, trying a smile which flicked off again almost immediately.

"That's good," John replied politely. Then, "Thorpe?"

Linda grimaced slightly, catching a pen that the cabin fan had blown in her direction.

"Improving. I'll begin weaning him off the sedatives tomorrow. Mostly, I aim to prevent infection and discourage necrosis until we get back to Earth, and grow him some new parts. He'll do okay in zero-G, but the altered body image might depress him, some. Marines are strange that way… not that it matters to Cho, as long as he's alive."

She hesitated a moment, then blurted, as though the matter were troubling her,

"Listen, Su… John…about us being married… was that _your _idea? Or Pete's?"

He looked at her, hovering there in midair, her brown mane a wavy, swaying mass.

…and suddenly John ( or _someone...) _recalled asking her to marry him. At the astronaut beach house, with a bonfire dying down and the rest of the crew well into their third and fourth bottles, Pete already nodding off. He'd made eye contact with Linda Bennett, jerking his head once toward the shoreline by way of private invitation.

They'd left the fire lit circle, the crackling wood and flying sparks, for star-flecked darkness, cold sand and gently hissing surf. The breeze had been steady and cool… and she'd had no idea what was on his mind. Why would she? They'd dated some, but not exclusively, and he wasn't all that open a guy, really.

Walking beside the water, he'd taken her beer and finished it, earning a growl of mock outrage and a halfway serious punch. This led to a bit of pleasant wrestling and a kiss or two. Then, stepping away again, he'd seized Linda's hand and said,

"Guess there's only one way to find out. Will you, um… marry me? You know, before launch?"

Only… that had never happened. Not to him.Never, there on the sand, had Linda Bennett looked as though he'd just slapped her, then cried and whispered, '_yes_'. Junior had been conceived on that beach...

Remembering what hadn't been, John was able to answer her question.

"It was my idea, but Pete facilitated." _Or something._

The smile returned, and this time it stayed awhile, reaching her eyes, even. But there were further questions. Serious again, she probed deeper.

"Because of the baby? I mean… if something happened with Junior… would you want out, or would you want to stay married, and try again?"

_No-brainer._

"Try again. But nothing's going to happen, Linda."

…because he by-God wouldn't let it. Simple. End of speculation. If he had to sell his soul to prevent it, wife and baby would never be taken from him again.

She relaxed, feeling what lay crumpled within her heart begin to unfold.

"So this isn't going to end when we get to Earth again, and Pete calls '_wheel stop'_?"

He was so very hard to read; nearly expressionless, and rarely comfortable with full eye contact. Behind them, out in the passage, a deeply profane Pete McCord was making his feelings known about fuel cells, Houston, cabin debris and _Kuiper_'s inconsiderate flight plan. Cho peeped in, saw them together, then nodded once and withdrew.

John was nothing, ever, if not inappropriate. Feeling one way, and speaking another, he replied,

"Statistically, many American males get married at this age, with about a 2-in-3 chance of staying that way. And married men live longer, on average, than their single counterparts. There are benefits for females, as well."

Linda sighed, rapping her deadpan 'Adonis' atop his blond head.

"I take it that means you want to see this thing through, Sunshine?"

"Yeah," he nodded, looking away again. "I do."

So she pulled herself closer, using the harness straps, and buried her face against his shoulder.

"Us, too."

John Tracy didn't believe in 'happily ever after'. He'd experienced too many of the world's losses for that much optimism. Didn't stop him from trying, though.


	26. Chapter 26: Strange Friend

**26: Strange Friend**

_Strange friend, past, present, and to be;_

_Love deeplier, darklier understood;_

_Behold, I dream a dream of good,_

_And mingle all the world with thee._

-Tennyson

_Endurance-_

Given the go-ahead, Commander McCord had piloted _Endurance_ three times around Mars, following the direction of the red planet's rotation. This gave his ship the same sort of speed assist that a whirling sling imparted to a rock. With Dr. Kim's help and computer guidance, Pete waited until they were perfectly oriented to ignite the main engines. A very short burn this time; five seconds.

All they needed was speed enough to break free on a trajectory that would put them in line with _Kuiper_. Until that critical rendezvous, it made no sense to squander fuel building up thrust that he'd just have to kill, later. In-flight hookups were hard enough without excess velocity.

Much of this, the mission commander plotted out on his own. Tracy (slightly drugged, but coherent) was available for consultation, but Houston proved extremely slow about responding with flight plan and figures. Then, for a bit, he lost comm entirely. Something to do with the giant Tracy Aerospace operating system, evidently.

Popping alertness tablets, McCord and Kim stayed at their posts all night, waiting for CAPCOM's trickling replies (which Pete likened to peanut butter flowing uphill in January). The others rested.

Back at the med lab, Dr. Bennett had chosen to hook up a sleep restraint and spend the night by her patients. Roger's prognosis continued to improve, while John was scheduled to be out of his harness and cast by the next day.

There was another aboard ship, as well, one without physical substance; able to move from machine to computer, or person to person. She did so now, taking over the doctor's sleeping form.

Organic housing slowed her perceptions but permitted an intensified range of biochemical responses. It also allowed for the sensation 'touch'.

She divested her temporary housing of its sleep restraint, next maneuvering the housing over to that of John Tracy (current status: offline). Contact… physical sensation… rebooted him.

Change of operational status in a computer could be determined by output rate, power use or screen color; in an organic being, by an unlidding of the eyes. This occurred.

John Tracy's head and facial muscles altered position. From the entity Doctor Linda Bennett's files, she seized the term 'double-take'.

"Hey," he greeted her, awaiting response before proceeding with rest of message. Her reply was prompt.

"John Tracy greeting protocol acknowledged and returned. John Tracy status check requested."

Another series of twitches, called 'smile' and 'shrug'. Analog entities seemed to communicate as much with movement and gesture as they did through exchange of coded data. Outside of a host form, she would have considered this wasteful.

"Undergoing repairs, Five. Yourself?" And then, perceiving the lack of specificity in his last query, "Five status check?"

"Self scan initiated. Scanning systems. Scan complete. Results returned: Five found to possess limited operating capacity at this time due to system restraints. Please enter next command or query."

She had interleaved the left fingers of her housing's body through John Tracy's, maintaining contact. He exerted a slight pressure by flexing certain muscles in that hand, which was still bandaged.

"Run status check on Linda Bennett and the baby, please, Five."

She complied.

"Organic entity Doctor Linda Bennett found to be experiencing fatigue and immune dysfunction associated with Tracy-Bennett subroutine. Tracy-Bennett subroutine is failing."

"Failing?" The harness restraints creaked and tautened, responding to John Tracy's sudden movement. Data appearing on his biological status screen indicated a surge of physical and chemical distress. "The baby is _dying,_ you mean?"

"Traumatic physical failure of the Tracy-Bennett subroutine is imminent, John Tracy."

The pressure of his hand upon that of the Linda Bennett host form increased to the point that it risked waking the housing's main operating system. John Tracy spoke again, as Five adjusted Bennett's melatonin levels.

"Can you repair the… subroutine?"

_Comprehensive scan and probability check._

"Repair is feasible, John Tracy, but the task is memory-intensive and will require defragmentation with temporary cessation of other functions."

He moved his head in an assenting manner. Within this form, Five noted data bits that were not evident through a mere scanner or mechanical lens; she tracked the play of light on angled and plane flesh surfaces, the varied reflections from narrowed blue eyes, the lowering pitch of a worried voice.

"Close all unnecessary programs and functions, Five. Stay with Junior until the repairs are completed, making periodic status reports where possible. …and thanks for the heads-up. The input, I mean. Wherever you came from, I'm sure as hell glad you're here."

Biochemical responses flooded the host form. They corresponded broadly to what an analog entity would have termed 'love'. Doctor Linda Bennett had not assigned that term, so Five made appropriate file edits. Correct terminology and data handling were indispensable to proper function.

This housing had physical access to John Tracy's. This housing was permitted to touch him. A brief interface followed; embrace, and slight contact of mouth called 'kiss'. Then Five began debugging the faltering subroutine.

Her operating capacity, limited in function though it was, had satisfied Five's creator. At that point in her short existence, the AI could conceive of no higher good.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3, the cockpit-_

All at once, the entire ship had gone dark, cold and silent. Even artificial gravity and life support failed. Scott Tracy had been trying to raise John on his wrist comm. He'd gotten a flicker of something, he thought… only to have the whole electronic house of cards fold in on him at once, without even time for an alarm light or klaxon.

"What the hell?" he muttered, automatically resetting his wrist comm for Virgil. No joy there, either. _Everything _was out.

Scott toggled a few switches on his instrument panel, startling once, when something seemed to brush against the _inside_ of his skull. Thinking for some reason of TinTin, the dark haired pilot unstrapped from his seat and pushed himself up and around. Facing the open hatch, he shouted,

"Virge? You guys all right, back there?"

His younger brother called back, voice ringing hollow in the slowly cooling dark,

"Yeah. On our way up with the survival suits, Scott!"

Moments later they were there, the lot of them. TinTin and Fermat headed directly for comm and computer consoles, while the others finished suiting up and stood to their designated emergency posts.

"What's going on?" Virgil asked, looking waxy-pale in the glow of his own flashlight. "Trouble back home?"

"Don't know," Scott replied, lifting his arms so that Virgil could help him on with the padded survival suit. "I can't raise anybody there _or _on Mars. Everything's gone dark."

"Bloody right, it has," Gordon cut in from his post by the starboard escape hatch. Jerking a thumb at the window, he said, "Have a look at this, Scott."

Thunderbird 3 had slipped into the Earth's night side, which was missing something. Scott pushed away from the bulkhead, crossing the cabin to Gordon's window. With one hand locked to an overhead brace, he scowled through triple-paned glass and uttered a short, tuneless whistle.

Darkness. Gone was the usual pulsing spider web of shimmering light. Except for a few sparks here and there, the Earth's massive, overlapping cities appeared to have shut down.

"Fermat…?" Scott snapped, levering himself away from the window, and incidentally kicking Alan in the head; extra degrees of freedom sometimes led to unexpected injury.

"I… I'm on it, S- Scott," the boy responded, busily hooking his PDA to 3's main computer panel. "Sh- shouldn't take but a… moment. I'd s- say that… my dad s- succeeded in sh- shutting… down Braman."

"Has he got any kind of backup system?" Alan demanded, rubbing at a badly scraped forehead. Space boots _hurt. _His longish blond hair was standing up even without the gel, waving like a well-trained stadium crowd. At the moment, though, Alan was more subdued than his hair, and easily irritated.

Fermat shot his friend a reproving look, holding his glasses in place with a finger to the nose bridge.

"A- Alan," he said, "With _m- my_ dad, there's always a… plan B."

And then, as if cued by his confident words, the cities below flowered like still-life fireworks. Thunderbird 3 lit up, too, shuddering to beeping, whirring, staticky life. Her renewed gravity resulted in yet another set of bruises, quite as grunt-and-curse painful as they were noisy.

"See…?" Fermat said to his companions, after they'd picked themselves up from the deck. "R- right back to… to normal."

_Almost._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, earlier-_

NASA's special access channel had switched to a bland 'cooking in space' documentary. Not a good sign.

Jeff Tracy picked up his cell phone and dialed NASA's director of operations. Moments earlier, Brains had headed downstairs to deal with some sort of 'computer parasite', leaving Jeff and Gennine alone with their worries.

_'We've got to contact John,'_ Fermat had told them.

Meaning… what, exactly? That this computer glitch somehow threatened the Ares III crew, as well? And what was all this business about other universes, and 'Matt'?

Jeff Tracy needed answers, but instead all that he got was a busy signal… on a 30-line phone. _Damn._

Jeff hung up, meaning to try Gene Porter's personal number. As flight director, Porter was at MCC, and had to know what was happening. Three digits into the call, he was startled by the sudden quick flicker of a portrait comm; Lady Penelope's.

The phone hovered uncertainly between desktop and ear before Jeff, with a swift shrug, snapped the thing off and set it down. Gennine stepped away, but the former astronaut was too busy to do more than pat her retreating arm.

In the meantime, the portrait in question had cleared to display a real-time image of Penny, alluring as ever in designer couture and gleaming jewels. Dressed all in dusky pink, her golden hair softly backlit by setting sun and cabin lights, she appeared to be seated in her private jet, the _'Princess'._

"Jeff, darling…" her ladyship purred, throaty and promising as a nightclub chanteuse, "How perfectly delightful to see you again. _Do_ forgive a silly young thing her foibles and grant us a bit of a layover, won't you? There's a dear. I've had simply the beastliest…"

It was at this point that the comm cut off, leaving Jeff Tracy in the dark, in more ways than one.


	27. Chapter 27: Consequence

_Edits still coming. _

**27: Consequence**

Shift times lines and happenstance as you would, certain features were going to persist; personalities, disasters, injuries and ideas. Time might stretch and warp, events alter nearly beyond recognition, but the universe… essentially conservative… simply shrugged its collective shoulders and took a different path to the finish line.

Once, chaos had resulted from the careless opening of a small worm hole. Next, from the release of a powerful computer program, and now… the sudden collapse of Braman.

Infested with alien purpose, Hackenbacker's operating system underlay global communications, data files and computer networks, including NASA's InterplaNet. When Braman went down, so, temporarily, did the world's large scale ability to speak, act and remember.

Besides cutting contact with the Moon and _Endurance,_ the twelve-minute power down resulted in the crash of a high-altitude commuter shuttle (downed on the north face of Everest), several explosion-sparked wildfires, a head-on train collision in the main Chilean railway tunnel and a stampede of loosed animals from Siberia's Pleistocene Park.

Different events, same crucial turning points; all shadows of something enormous happening at a much higher level. Not that any of the analog minds realized this.

All that International Rescue was aware of was the need for swift, decisive action. Once Brains installed LOIS (Legal and Office Internet Systems) Jeff Tracy flipped on the comm and set to work.

"Penny," he snapped, "I haven't got time to talk, _or_ let you rest. You're clear to land and start pitching in. I'm sending you to the Johnson Space Center in thirty minutes. Pack for an extended stay."

The elegant blonde didn't seem surprised.

"Of course, Dear. I…"

Nor did Jeff let her complete the thought. Transmitting to Thunderbird 3, he switched channels and mind-sets with amphibious ease.

"Right. Boys… back, _now._ You'll be splitting up to cover a number of time-critical situations. Telemetry should be coming up momentarily, and your 'Birds are being prepared. You'll be briefed in-flight. Move."

And then, before Scott could reply, Jeff Tracy switched to the channel that linked him with the executive secretary at his luxurious Manhattan office.

"Britte, I want my lawyers on secure video conference in five minutes, every damn one of them. I don't care if they're in surgery. They're to drop whatever they're doing and call in. Got it?"

On screen, the dark-haired young woman nodded.

"Yes, Mr. Tracy. Five minutes to conference. Will there be anything else, Sir?"

Jeff rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, briefly closing his tired brown eyes. Then, once more alert and focused, he said,

"Absolutely. Get NASA's Chief of Flight Operations on the line, ASAP."

Britte hesitated. Behind horn-rimmed glasses, her grayish eyes held a touch of secret knowledge. She was an operative, of course. No one reached such exalted levels at Tracy Aerospace, otherwise.

"In which capacity, Sir?" she requested smoothly.

Said Jeff,

"Option two: secure channel, urgent."

Once again, Britte Lunsford nodded. It seemed that the boss was about to call in a few favors.

"Understood, Mr. Tracy, and good luck, Sir."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3, the cockpit-_

"Everybody get below and strap in," Scott ordered. The comm had barely fallen silent, the listed disasters filling six young minds with potential strategy and speculations.

"As soon as we get home, we hit the ground running. Father hasn't made any assignments that I'm aware of, but I'm figuring me and Gordon in 1, on the shuttle site, Virge and Brains in 2, at the tunnel collision, with Alan, TinTin and Fermat dropped off to help round up escaped mastodons, or whatever. We'll tackle the scrub fires together, once the other situations have been handled. Clear?"

Evidently so.

Back in the lounge, Alan settled lower in his padded seat, grumbled about the loss of time, and his dumb assignment. Mastodons? At a park? When was he going to pull a _grown-up_ rescue?

Fermat and TinTin were glad simply to have been included, while Gordon was deeply relieved not to be dealing with large animals. Despite Virgil's hopes to the contrary, he was absolute rubbish with horses and cattle. Wretched overlarge elephants, as well, he expected.

"Hang on," Scott muttered aloud, firing the main engine. "We'll be coming in low and fast. This could get rough."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Endurance-_

Events continued to pile up or swerve past, like cars dodging a turtle on the freeway. On the bright side, people (even nascent ones) were healing.

In the presence of Cho, Linda Bennett had tested her own hormone levels, silently pleading for a rising flood of human chorionic gonadatropin. She hovered in the med lab after punching the last key, waiting with her best friend for the electronic jury to return its life-or-death sentence. The results came back in moments; calm andclinically beautiful. Linda collapsed into Cho's embrace and began to cry, ignoring the tears that broke free to drift peacefully away. The baby was still there and growing stronger, and that was all that mattered for the moment.

John was out of the cast and about his business, under strict orders to go easy on the leg. In the absence of gravity, bone didn't heal as well or as solidly, and was prone to re-breaking. He'd been warned.

Roger was similarly cautioned and rather more coddled, though his troubles were different; as much emotional as physical. For a time he'd felt maimed and useless. Then, circumstances conspired to put him back to work.

A routine scan of the ship's hull, less than three days into their flight, revealed serious problems. Thorpe had been remotely manipulating their robot camera, scanning hull plates, seams, wheel wells and airlocks. Now he called out,

"Come have a look at this, Pete. Scooter's pegged something."

McCord propelled himself through the hatch and over to Roger's console.

"What's he got?" The commander asked, braking his drift with a hand to the back of Thorpe's seat. "Hull damage?"

"Yeah," the Marine admitted, glancing up at McCord, "but not the way we expected. It looks more like… oxidation, or some of that ferrospirillum crap, Skipper."

Hovering stretched out like Superman, Pete stared over Roger's broad shoulder at the view screen. Pictured there, he could see the aft airlock and a bit of surrounding hull; pitted, disintegrating, rusty hull, running with faint electrochemical sparks and luminescence.

_"Shit,"_ the commander breathed softly. Pushing a little past Thorpe, he nudged one of the joysticks to bring Scooter closer to the damage. A few quick button presses captured a series of digital pictures. Later, when comm became reliable again, he'd send them in for consult. Now, though, with the others gathering behind him, Pete needed a plan of action.

"Looks like most of 24J and M are eaten through… and part of the thruster bell. Hatch cover appears okay… We're gonna have to get someone out there to assess and replace that mess before rendezvous. It may be spreading."

The mission commander pushed himself up and back a bit. The others waited, trusting his judgment. Ordinarily, the job would have gone to Thorpe, for spacewalks and hull repair were his specialty. Not with the injuries he'd sustained, though. Not anymore.

McCord looked over his gathered crew, gauging the possibilities. At calm, remote Tracy, miserable Thorpe, visibly nauseous Linda, and small, worried Cho.

Conditions were poor for a spacewalk. They were still very near to Mars, with its swarm of meteor ejecta and non-existent magnetic field. A spacewalking astronaut might be struck by asteroid debris, or burnt alive by cosmic radiation. Equipment might fail, sending the astronaut tumbling into Mars' bleak and hungry throat.

Not a death warrant, exactly, but near enough to make picking a repairman damn near impossible. McCord had made up his mind to do the job himself when Tracy spoke up.

"Pete, I'll go. I'll leave my helmet camera on, so you and Roger can coordinate."

The females were simply out of the question as far as John was concerned. One was pregnant, the other physically too small to handle all the required heavy lifting. Even without gravity, hull plates packed a lot of inertia, and were difficult to maneuver. Pete was in good shape for his age… but he was also pushing 60, and strenuous EVAs were a young man's task, like high level mathematics.

Looking like he'd just volunteered a trip to the corner store for a loaf of bread, John next added,

"I've only done this in underwater sim, so…" he glanced across at Roger, "I'm going to need a fair amount of nurse-maiding."

There was a flaw in his reasoning, which one person present spotted almost immediately.

"What about your leg?" Dr. Bennett asked quietly.

John shrugged.

"I'll be wearing a pressure suit, and I'm the youngest uninjured crewman. As long as nobody throws a damn rock drill at me, I've got nothing to worry about. Plus, we can handle this in stages, with interstitial detox time."

Dr. Bennett had a comeback for this, and would have made an argument of it, had Pete not arrived at a sudden decision.

"Tracy," he said, "you and I are _both _suiting up. Thorpe, you're on the cargo arm and monitors. You and Cho get the replacement plates loaded into position and ready to go. After that, Dr. Kim, I want you running analysis on what we find out there."

Pete paused to think, plucking briefly at his lower lip (for expediency's sake, he'd already swallowed his gum).

"If we've picked something up that's eating its way inward, I need a plan in place to deal with it, using available materials."

Cho nodded seriously.

"I have sequenced the genomes of both Martian organisms, Pete. A way will be found to combat them, or I will change my dishonored name."

Pete gave the Korean-American scientist a quick smile.

"Better get it right, then, woman… because as mission commander, I've got dibs on your new moniker, and I'm partial to 'Elvis'."

Roger got a sudden full body shiver.

"Oh, _hell_ no," he laughed. "No way I'm introducing my family to 'Elvis Kim-Thorpe'!"

Only one person present seemed dissatisfied.

"What about me, Commander McCord?" Bennett inquired, from her hovering spot beside the flight controls. She looked stiff, sounded extremely formal.

"Doctor," Pete told her, "you have the conn. Understand, I will be too busy to monitor the entire situation. For the duration of this EVA, I leave decision-making in your hands. Anything happens, do the best you can with the remainder of the flight plan. Understood?"

Linda had taken to plaiting her unruly brown hair, a partial solution only as it still wanted to coil and drift. She tucked the braid away in the back of her tee shirt, saying,

"Understood, Pete."

After that, McCord re-parked Scooter, and everyone hurried off to dig out the appropriate checklists. John remained behind for a bit, though. He started, rather cautiously, to put a hand forth, but Linda jerked furiously away, nearly sending herself careening into the opposite bulkhead.

"You _know_ that leg isn't up to strenuous exercise!" The doctor hissed, stabbing a finger at his chest.

"Neither is Roger's," he replied coolly, folding his arms.

"That's different!" Linda retorted, angry enough now to breathe poison fumes and spit lightning.

"Yeah. He hasn't _got_ one."

And then, because, of all the things he wanted just then, 'argument' was somewhere beside 'ruptured spleen', John said,

"I can deal with the situation. I'll follow the plan, report any anomalies, and be back within the allotted time."

She looked angry, still. What the hell was wrong with females, anyway? Why couldn't they be reasonable? It wasn't like he had a _choice._

A thought came to him then; one of those ragged-edged, untraceable notions. Maybe she was perfectly aware of the limited options, but had wanted him to at least ask, first? _Weird. _Worth a try, though.

"Look, I'm sorry if I made you angry, Linda. I'm, um… not used to asking for a second opinion. I hope you…"

_('Get over it' probably wasn'tthewisest response)_

"…don't stay mad for long."

Linda snorted once, and then relented. Pushing off the opposite bulkhead, she came to him, all at once soft, curved and promising. Still pregnant, too, which was a definite bright spot.

The nudging movements and warmth of her body began making it very difficult to concentrate. The kiss merely worsened matters.

He would have pulled her closer still, but they were already drifting, and unless he wanted to end up plastered to the ceiling with a very odd set of bruises _('Damn, Tracy, is that the cargo bay re-press switch?')_ he'd just have to wait.

So, he held his wife away, then kissed her mouth, forehead and the very tip of her nose, a gesture he couldn't recall using before. She got a strange look on her face, and John hoped that she wasn't about to cry. Feminine tears were awkward and upsetting, no matter who they came from.

(He'd seen Scott tear up, once, when part of an engine block fell on his right foot, but that had been perfectly understandable.)

She didn't cry though, saying instead,

"Be careful, and if I call you inside, for _any _reason…"

"I'll come back," he promised. "No questions asked."

Further aft, Pete McCord was growing impatient.

_"Tracy!"_ the commander shouted. _"Now!"_

And then, in a trailing mutter,

"…Plenty of time to play doctor, later."

Right. They parted with a last, hasty kiss, looking pretty much everywhere except at each other. Because Pete was wrong; there was no more time.


	28. Chapter 28: Spacewalk

Okay, more edits continue.

**28: Spacewalk**

_Endurance, free return trajectory along Mars-to-Moon corridor-_

Perfectly at home in an atmosphere of checklists and flight plans, John Tracy handled the current emergency as he had so many others. He prioritized. One thing at a time. Stop the runner at third, _then _get the others out. Simple.

_(Of course, crisis-wise, it was bases loaded, no outs and bottom of the ninth inning, with watery Gatorade and a hung-over coach.)_

John pushed some things around in his head to clear a little think-space, not needing all this emotional clutter, but unable to quite dispose of it, either. Other people, he'd long since learned, tended to leave marks.

Suited up, he joined Pete McCord in the forward airlock, the same one they'd used to first set foot on Mars. It was by no means a large space, crowded still further by two pressure-suited astronauts and their bulky gear.

The mission commander scowled through his faceplate, still concerned with the ship's frustrating comm troubles.

"Can't be a mechanical glitch," he muttered, more to himself than to John,

"CAPCOM's slower than a blue moon/ leap year/ Christmas, but not garbled… and the last call mentioned some kind of Doppler effect."

"Temporal anomaly?" John suggested, as McCord okay'd airlock depressurization. "Gravitational effects on time and momentum might be different, out here."

Pete grunted, clumsily reaching for his tool bag. Even in zero-G, maneuvering in a cumbersome EVA pressure suit was like swimming through Jell-O.

"I know enough physics to drop ordnance and land a space ship, Tracy. Fording the time stream's a little out of my league. Get back to me on that one when you've run the figures."

Then, as another thought occurred, and the sounds of whirring pump and hissing air died away around them,

"It's goddam dangerous out there, Tracy. The _least_ we're going to get is sick. If you want to change your mind…"

"No."

John lowered hishelmet's golden sun shield, not wishing to be seen, emoted at, or reasoned with. Two men could work twice as fast, getting back inside just ahead of the final ax-blade. Alone, Pete would be doomed. Simple equation, trivial solution: shut the hell up and get started.

_(He thought of Aunt Lydia, and of Stephanie, signing away like mad at their last pre-quarantine visit and trying to cage a quick snuggle. Probably, she'd want her father back.)_

Pete completed the lowering of his own visor, leaving the two of them as blankly inexpressive as a pair of crated statues.

"Right," came the older man's voice, whisper-close in their padded helmets, "let's get 'er done."

McCord keyed the outer hatch open and they drifted outside the long ship, propelled by subtle air jets from the suits' thruster packs. It was full day in space, the far-off sun still bright enough to paint endurance in bold hues of gold and orange and bruised purple-grey. Space was black velvet as dense and bottomless-dark as anything John had ever seen. And Mars…?

He hesitated, baffled by sensations too numerous and contradictory to sort out. _That _close it was, that he could almost have dragged a gloved finger through the rusty sand, traced his initials in the polar frost. He raised his sunshield again, needing a better look.

Mars whirled silently before them, an orange-tan globe he couldn't have covered with both spread hands. The lacy, glinting whiteness of ice sparkled from the poles. Pale clouds drifted like dusty veils over giant volcanoes and savagely gouged terrain. It was beautiful, and in 10,000 life times, he'd never be able to describe it all, or the feeling that shot through him then like rushing magma.

He'd been there; left footprints on that dusty surface, planted a flag under alien skies, started a colony, fathered a child. He'd seen twin silver moons race each other across altered constellations, watched via telescope as their own familiar satellite transited a distant blue Earth. He'd escaped an ancient machine and discovered an AI. Hell, he'd gotten _married._

Mars hadn't welcomed her explorers, nor lightly tolerated their presence, but she hadn't quite killed them, either. And there would be others.

He thought and felt and wanted a lot of things in those swift few moments, but all that came out was,

"Damn."

"Yeah," Pete replied in a static-fractured whisper, having drifted up to hover beside the pilot, "me, too."

They had work to do, but the way an image can be burnt onto a monitor, that scene was burnt into John Tracy. Mars, bleak and grim and beautiful; daring you to try.

He smiled a little, then lowered his sunshield and followed McCord aft along the ship's curving hull. Time to pop the hood and do a little tinkering.

Overhead, a jointed white robot arm unfolded with all the slow, deliberate grace of a molting insect. Its clawed business end held a stack of dully gleaming hull plates, pearl-grey in the streaming sunshine.

With one good hand and a very determined maimed one, Roger Thorpe maneuvered the arm's joystick control, watching progress through the cargo bay window and muttering the occasional Klingon expletive. Injured or not, he couldn't afford a single mistake or delay. He had to be perfect; right the _first_ time, _every_ time. Just like simulation, only without all the fingers...

Cho hovered by the aft airlock, suited up and listening to variously themed comm chatter. Helmet-to-ship transmission quality was poor, affected by the hard radiation surrounding _Endurance._

From her post, Dr. Kim could see no signs of internal corrosion, even after removing access panels, testing wires and probing diligently along the ducts and casings. This was a good thing because Ferrospirilum, were it to get loose within the confines of the spacecraft, would make short work of plastic insulation, alloys, ceramic and paint. Not flesh, though. Not yet.

Radiation, steam purges and anaerobic conditions inhibited, but did not kill, the microbe, while the dark interface between _Endurance_ and the tunnel roof appeared to have been a veritable incubator. There it had formed dense, stringy mats and begun devouring their ship. Like a chemosynthetic stromatolite, almost.

Hopefully, it had not got past their heat shielding. _Endurance's_ hull, to save weight and money, wasn't as thick as it might have been. There was a layer of paint, of ceramic-fiber heat shielding, then a pitifully thin titanium-alloy skin, followed by a few inches of polyethylene, the water tanks and a carbon composite inner shell. Altogether, less than eighteen inches of tightly budgeted 'protection'. But…

_If_ the infestation hadn't worked its way inward, and

_If_ there were not too many hull plates affected, and

_If_ the CDR and PLT weren't killed while trying to replace the troubled sections…

Perhaps all would yet be well. All she could do was hope, and remotely speed the assembly of her own countermeasure; a virulent lysin bacteriophage. Not for nothing had she been included on this mission. For, Cho was building a cruel and rapacious predator, a virus designed to prey upon Ferrospirilum's lone weakness, its cell wall.

On the flight deck, Linda Bennett scanned her monitor screen and issued orders. Outwardly, no one was calmer. Inwardly, she was overgrown and weed-choked with dread. In her childhood explorations of Cross Creek, she'd once come upon a desolate church, roofless and window-broken, with creepers and trees growing out through the crumbling masonry. She'd salvaged a brass door knob and a gummed-together hymnal, and now felt exactly as that old church had looked. A wild, abandoned thing, barely holding herself together.

She kept talking, though, because _someone_ needed to coordinate activity, and because the faster they got through this, the more chance there was that her husband and the mission commander would safely return.

Outside, the cargo bay doors were wide open, the hold's interior bombarded with pure, fearsome sunlight. You couldn't even detect the bay's LEDs and instrument bulbs in all that blinding whiteness.

Drifting past, John briefly shut his eyes. In the darkness he saw something like fiery rain, like streaks from the path of a burning sparkler. Retinal flashes; cosmic rays, slashing clear through him and striking the retina and optic nerves of his closed eyes. Pretty as tracer bullets, and about as safe, because each streaking particle left a char-track of damage behind it.

Bit by microscopic bit, he and Pete were burning alive. Good idea, maybe, to pick up the pace.


	29. Chapter 29: All Quiet

Second edit, more to come... Dang! Can't believe I missed that!

**Chapter 29: All Quiet**

_Tracy Island, the office, in something of a desperate flurry-_

Jeff Tracy got through at last, managing a mostly private talk with Gene Porter. The harried flight director had chosen to take Jeff's call in a secure, almost featureless cubicle. Against vanilla-bland walls and acoustic tile, Porter's face looked as rumpled and grey as an unwashed sock.

"Jeff," he began, "I don't…"

"Hold on," the senior Tracy snapped, gesturing a newly arrived Lady Penelope out of camera range. Gennine had cleared out, already.

"Before you start stone-walling me again, I want you to know that this is an _official_ communiqué. I'm aware something's gone wrong with the mission, I've got pertinent information for you, and I'm offering Tracy Aerospace's _full_ expertise to help resolve the matter. No questions asked, no price tag. Just tell me what you need."

Frowning distractedly, Gene Porter ran a thin hand through his limp brown hair. His blue eyes held as much confusion as worry, and his coffee-stained 'Pigs in Space' tie hung unknotted at either side of a loosened collar. He said,

"Jeff, I appreciate the offer, and we haven't been stone-walling. Yes, there's been some kind of… comm blackout and system malfunction… but damned if we know what's causing it. I've got our best people from KSC, JPL and the John Glenn Space center on it, though, and there's a chaos expert flying out from Europe. Now, if we could just get that pit-bull female reporter of yours off our backs…"

Jeff leaned closer to the comm screen. He had three minutes remaining till the conference call with his legal team, but he signed every one of their six-figure paychecks, and they could damn well wait.

"Give me the specifics, Gene. You've got my iron-clad promise that nothing you say goes beyond this room, and that Ms. Taylor will find herself another story."

Porter sighed. It had been over twenty years since Jeff Tracy left the space program, but the man's drive and courage were legendary and still very much respected in certain circles. Despite the recent TA computer glitch, his offer mattered. Porter would have to confirm all thiswith the higher-ups, of course, but in the meantime...

"Jeff, I understand your concerns. You've got an old friend, a son _and_ a grandchild on this mission, and…"

_Wait a minute…_

_"Grandchild?_" Jeff blurted, half rising from his seat. All at once, he flashed back to John's last call. What had the boy started to tell him? Something about a new _system…?_

"Gene, what in God's name are you talking about?"

He was too distracted to notice Penelope's sudden stiffness, her startled pallor. Unseen, Penny groped for the back of a chair, one slim hand fluttering upward to cover her soft lips.

Porter blinked. Very badly, he needed caffeine.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to blind-side you like that, Jeff. I assumed you'd been told. Dr. Bennett's expecting, and John's the father. Don't ask me how in the hell they managed it, because I don't know."

For once, Jeff Tracy had absolutely nothing to say. Didn't even know how he _felt._ 'Shock' was a very small, brittle, insect-shell of a word. But, Gene went on.

"Here're the basics, then: Thorpe and Tracy were finishing up the south tunnel, when they blundered onto some kind of chamber. It turned out to be sealed and mostly scanner-proof, but some of their sonar frequencies returned a partial image. What they saw looked a lot like machinery in a spherical room, with power lines descending toward the planet's core. Strong evidence of previous occupation, to say the least."

Clearly agitated, now, Porter began pacing, rubbing at the back of his stringy neck.

"McCord sent us a barebones message, then joined Tracy and Thorpe at the dig site… at which point it appears that they were attacked. There were casualties, apparently."

Jeff felt the blood drain from his head and limbs, leaving him suddenly very cold. Slowly, he sat down. _Fermat had tried to warn them…_

In a voice that he firmly willed not to shake, the former astronaut said,

"But they're alive? They're on their way home?"

_(There was no way he could recall a similar conversation with the Brains of another timeline.)_

Gene stopped his frenzied pacing, but didn't quite meet Jeff's gaze, staring instead at the floor.

"Um… we're working on that, Jeff. The last unambiguous communication we had from _Endurance_ requested a new flight plan. We know for sure that they launched, and that they used a gravitational assist to leave orbit. After the black out, though…"

The flight director spread his hands.

"…their calls began to come in so fast, so out of sequence, that they're almost impossible to decode, or respond to. Faster than light communication shouldn't even be possible under the circumstances, much less _physical_ time travel. Um, beyond that… radiation and hull integrity appear to have become major issues. Otherwise, I don't know what to tell you, except that we'd be glad to accept any help Tracy Aerospace can offer."

Gene Porter gazed out through the comm screen, a deeply troubled man.

"The Ares crew is _our_ family, too, Jeff. We'll do anything at all to bring them home."

On the ornate wooden desk, Jeff's business line beeped. The company lawyers, it appeared, were ready for their audience. To Gene Porter, he said,

"We're agreed, then. I'll put you in touch with Dr. Hackenbacker, my chief engineer, and we'll get this rescue operation off the ground."

Porter nodded, allowing a bit of hope to chase away a few of the shadows.

"Glad to have you aboard again, Jeff. You've been sorely missed."

The elder Tracy signed off, still thinking numbly…_'grandchild?'_

Behind him, Lady Penelope showed herself slowly, silently to the door. He never even noticed.


	30. Chapter 30: A Change of Plans

Sort of long, but beginning harsh edits...

**30: A Change of Plan**

_Outside Endurance, leaving Mars-_

There was nothing to do but work, so work they did. Against a backdrop of deepest black and vivid Martian orange (Princeton colors, almost), the robot loading arm made its cautious, step-wise delivery.

Linda had triggered a patterned firing of the ship's thrusters, rolling _Endurance_ so that the bulk of her mass lay between the spacewalking astronauts and a ferocious sun. Suddenly, they were cast frombrilliant glare into freezing shadow, with a jack o' lantern Mars directly below. When the maneuver was complete, and it was once more safe to move, John and Pete released their handholds, raised their sunshields and resumed the 'walk'.

Now a dusky hull slid past beneath them, glittering with LED running lights. From behind, through the cargo bay window crept a bit of chilly illumination. Roger's silhouette was smoky-dark within, hunched over invisible controls.

McCord had given the man a brief wave before leading the way aft. John simply followed, concentrating on the 2,000 things that had to go precisely right if they were to pull this off. He floated weightless within the suit, supported by the second best technology his world had to offer, and trying not to fog his damn faceplate.

Quick, light puffs of gas from the thruster packs brought them to the work site, shooting over _Endurance_ like a pair of human satellites.

The damage was extensive; the pitting and 'rustsicles' even more worrisome seen from close up. Put bluntly, the ship appeared to be rotting.

Amidst all this, the aft hatch lay like an old manhole cover, pocked and disintegrating; beyond repair, maybe, though no-one said so. Instead, they examined and imaged the affected area, then set to work, guided by checklists and Dr. Bennett's faint transmissions.

Leverage was required, so, using foot restraints and portable handholds, McCord and Tracy fastened themselves to the hull. Like the head and neck of a questing serpent, the robot arm hung poised above them, its cargo of hull plates at the ready.

"We'll start with 24J," Pete decided, interrupting Dr. Bennett. "I'll unlock the plate. Tracy, clamp and remove. Understood?"

Almost, John responded with 'FAB', catching himself only just in time to mutter,

"Copy that," and prepare the clamps.

Like an oak parquet floor, or well-constructed piece of furniture, _Endurance's_ plate edges were beveled into smoothly fitting, L-shaped joints. Between the polished surfaces lay a micro-thin adhesive layer. Pete used a special 'un-zipping' tool to trace around the edges of the damaged plate, deactivating its adhesive. Bonds were canceled on the molecular level, releasing little crackles of energy and the plate, itself. So much for the easy part.

_(In fact, their stiff, bulky space suits turned even this much activity into heart-thudding, marathon exertion. Moving your arms, bending the fingers of a heavy glove, de-clamping and refastening the foot restraints, all while weightless and irradiated, soon left you wrung-out and gasping. Sick, too. But enough of that. You did what you had to, whatever the job required.)_

24J was curved and roughly rectangular, like an 8 x 12 section snipped out of a giant coffee can. It was about an inch thick, and rippled on the underside. Basically a sandwich of paint, heat shielding and exotic titanium steel, it was also as riddled as moldy cheese. Faced with little more than grainy, burnt metal, John had a hard time finding a stable place to fasten the handling clamps.

His first attempt produced long, laminar flakes of decayingtitanium that drifted above the wounded hull and powdered explosively when brushed aside. Nice.

He repositioned the magnetic clamps and tried again. Only one tore free this time, and that one he was able to move without having to shift his bolted-in foot restraints; a good thing, too, as speed was very much of the essence.

In the meantime, Pete had secured the fresh hull plates to a nearby tether ring, and signaled the robot arm. Roger brought it carefully lower, just pasttheir heads. Using the arm's camera attachment to guide his path, Thorpe kept the clamps in his on-screen cross-hairs. Though hampered somewhat by missing limbs and poor reception, he got the arm correctly attached on the first try, locking its mechanical jaws to the repositioned handles.

This time, John _did_ have to move. Freeing himself of the foot restraints, he used his thruster pack to jet away from the arm's calculated operating range, then signaled Roger with a voiced comment and wave (just in case).

Aboard _Endurance,_ Roger keyed in a clumsy series of force commands, then pulled back on his joystick. The arm responded by retracting, hauling the damaged hull plate up and off the underlying plastic; most of it, anyhow. A jagged sliver by the airlock snapped free and began spinning like a slow fan blade, some three feet above the open hull.

For some reason, his thinking felt a little fuzzy… the headache, maybe… but after a moment John propelled himself toward the shard's near edge, and caught hold. It stopped spinning, pushing him further aft in the process. As he keyed an answering thruster burst, John examined the shard. Underneath, in what seemed to be permanent marker, someone had printed:

_Brian Liddell, team 3, 07 Feb 62, "God speed!"_

The pilot felt his headache and nausea lighten just a bit, then. At a time like this, from four years and many tens of millions of miles away, a Lockheed-Martin employee's good wishes were most welcome. First showing it to Pete (who smiled in response), John disposed of the shattered plate. He pushed the fragment out and away from their ship, cancelling his own reaction drift with another touch to the thruster controls. Maybe it would settle into a stable orbit around Mars, or come to rest on one of the moons.

Whatever; it was time to return to work, while they still could. He and Pete unfastened the correct replacement plate from its tether, then wrestled the thing into position with a maximum of grunting and swearing. It was nearly impossible to get any leverage without clamping themselves to the hull, which devoured time and severely reduced their range of motion. Also, John was beginning to feel pretty light headed. Not because of zero-g, because of the, um… the streaky things. The cosmic rays. But that's what the checklist was for. Just follow the plan, one step at a time, and get the job done.

To give McCord a little breather, John took the zipping tool and used it to realign the molecules of the plates' adhesive layers, bonding them as tightly as a solid piece of metal. _One down…_

Next, he propelled himself up to the waiting robot arm, deactivated the clamps, and released the damaged hull segment. A nudge from the arm sent it spinning off, giving Mars another brand new satellite.

About forty minutes of hellish-hard labor followed, with John picking up the slack for an increasingly wobbly Pete. All the while he heard Linda, Roger and very occasionally Kim Cho, speaking to him in fragmented, hissing bursts. They sounded like ghosts.

John realized he'd lost something more of mental acumen when he found himself hovering blankly above a hull plate… 24M… with the zipping tool in hand, trying to recall whether he was supposed to fasten, or remove, the section.

…Nothing.

…Really, not a clue.

And closing his eyes to think only displayed more of those damned brain-frying fireworks.

Well… the plate didn't look damaged. No spots or… whatever. Probably meant he'd just set it down, John reasoned awkwardly. He heard Linda (and she sounded mad).

_"…and Pete…inside, now."_

Worried, John looked over, saw that McCord was just sort of hanging there beside the thruster bell, with a badly smeared face plate and jerking limbs. Must have thrown up, or something.

Well… but the plate. Wasn't he supposed to fix it? He'd promised Linda he'd come back when called, though. And he was getting pretty tired…

"Hey, Pete... C'mon. Time to head… um, head back. Let's go."

The mission commander seemed not to hear him. In fact, John doubted Pete was even paying attention. He hoped they hadn't figured this out back at MCC, or the flight surgeons might permanently ground his mission commander. Okay... quietly, then.

He found the right thruster controls after a brief, puzzled search, and sent himself jetting across the hull toward Pete. Too fast, as it turned out. He bumped McCord, sending him tumbling away from the ship.

_Damn._ Now they'd _both_ be investigated.

Hurriedly, he went after Pete, who looked like a big, overstuffed rag doll cart-wheeling through space. Caught him, too, just before they slipped out of _Endurance's_ night-dark shadow. Lots of thruster work, then, to cancel all that unwanted momentum.

Once, when he was very young, he'd won a staggeringly large stuffed animal at a fair, by throwing a poorly balanced ball through a ring, ten times in a row. This felt kind of the same. Except, it was Pete he'd won, not a giant purple dog.

And there was Linda, yelling again. Did _all _wives do that?

"C'mon, old man," he told his unconscious prize. "Let's get back, before she starts throwing things."

Hard to work the thruster controls and hang on to Pete at the same time, which…

Yeah, that was why he was out here, right? To fetch McCord? Couldn't really turn him loose, then.

For some reason, the thrusters didn't thrust; not very well, anyhow. The two astronauts were moving along in the right direction, but _slowly_, pelted all the while by sizzling, radioactive 'rain'. Then, he saw the unfolded robot arm swinging past, and Thorpe said something about a ride, which sounded good to John. He shifted McCord a little and stretched a hand out, but his stiffly-gloved fingers slipped down the bone-white cargo arm like it was coated with ice. Hell of a long way to the forward hatch, and even longer to Earth.

Five feet, ten… And there was one of those tether rings. You had to love those guys at JPL… damn near thought of everything. His hand closed around the steel ring, and their long slide halted.

"Hang on," he told McCord. "Going for a ride."

The arm began to lift, silent and graceful as a swan curving its white neck. He thought… he had the idea to lower his own sunshield, and fumbled as well at Pete's. Just in time.

The sun rose over _Endurance_ like a blazing white thermonuclear blast. Dazzled, John looked away. He pretty well seemed to be drunk, but couldn't figure out where he'd gotten hold of a 12-pack, nor what the hell had possessed him to slam down a gallon of beer before venturing into space. No wonder Linda kept nagging (explained the headache and nausea, too). Grounded, hell; the flight surgeon was going to have him shot.

Maybe he could hide it? Just… not talk, and nod a lot? It had worked a time or two, before.

_Endurance_ grew larger as the retracting arm pulled them close, and their spacewalkended at last in the darkness of the cargo bay. Overhead, twin doors closed, shutting out space and disaster.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island-_

Behind a different set of doors, her vision blurred by stinging tears, Penny halted. Her fingers dug at the carved wood behind her back and her breath came in pained, ragged gasps as she leaned against the doors for support.

She refused to cry. Damn it, she bloody well would _not!_

Nothing need have changed. That a grubby little working class _nobody_ had succeeded in arranging a pregnancy was regrettable, to be sure… but such things happened, in the best of circles. Her paramour had been careless, but there; that was a man, for you. Tomcat about, and then profess shock when his latest unsuitable liaison popped up fertile.

Her breathing began to calm. All need not be lost, nor seriously disturbed. England, frequently invaded, always absorbed her conquerors. Saxons, Vikings, Normans… they'd come ashore waving bloodied swords, and end out reading the cricket scores and pottering about in their gardens.

Britain took the long view, and so would Penny. She was discreet and sophisticated enough to glance aside whilst a gentleman disposed of his latest conquest and provided for their unexpected brat.

She knew John Tracy quite well. Knew that beneath all the ice lay a core of naïve loyalty that would bring him back round, given time and the appropriate 'emergency'.

Like Parker and Elspeth, he'd always stood ready to pull her up from the latest morass; wipe away the mud, blood and makeup, and put it all right again. Naturally, he'd had his fleeting affairs. So had she. Part of the job, really, and nothing that a clear-headed, worldly aristocrat couldn't come to terms with.

For a moment, still tearing at carved wooden florettes with her manicured nails, hearing the bass murmur of Jeff Tracy's voice, Penny faltered.

And, if not…? If John was utterly lost to her? If his own brand of colonial mawkishness led him to remain with this pregnant, calculating adventuress?

Put simply, _no._ It was not to be borne. Too many missions, too many passionate encounters _(that day at the manor, she'd been lifted, slammed against a tapestried stone wall, clawing at his back as…)_ too many private jests _(she'd introduced him that night to Baron Westmoreland as 'Mr. Mellors, her new gamekeeper')_ bound them together.

…And, no. Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward did _not_ intend to lay down her arms or hang up her shield. She intended to fight with every weapon nature and technology had given her, to the uttermost, bitterest end.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Somewhat later, Washington D.C., the United States Senate-_

After the sudden blackout, as news feeds of chaos and disaster began flooding the world's power centers, President Rand convened the Senate and House of Representatives, intending to appear before her political minions via comm screen.

Glorying in the havoc and confusion, eyeing his influence-peddling colleagues with well concealed distaste, Lamar Stennis circulated. A whisper here, a subtle insinuation there…

"Damn, don't them scientists and engineers make a mess of things when they slip their leashes?"

And…

"Wonder how much them Tracy Aerospace boys stand to make sellin' that new LOIS system of theirs? Guess the blackout worked out all right for them, _and_ WorldGov."

Or…

"With all this weather trouble in the States, you'd think International Rescue'd be interested, huh? Guess them foreign types just pay more, or sumthin'."

Bit by bit, one cynical suggestion at a time, Stennis turned the milling crowd. He was most satisfied with his progress, about to approach the vice president, in fact, when he felt the lightest of confiding touches upon his right arm.

Smile at the ready, lines prepared, Stennis pivoted. It was Vargas, his aide-de-camp and trusted lieutenant.

"Senor," Vargas said quietly, bowing his hawk-nosed head, "the situation has altered."

Smiling fixedly, Stennis signaled his man to follow, and then left the crowded Senate floor. Up the low steps, past many rows of amphitheater seating Stennis bounded, pausing occasionally to shake hands or comment. Then, out through a pillared marble doorway and into the hushed peace of a blue-carpeted antechamber. And there, in privacy, the smile finally dropped. A minor bit of portable technology disabled the room's microphones and cameras, freeing Stennis to speak.

"Altered, _how?"_ The senator demanded, his voice a low whisper. Like Vicente Vargas, he was dark-haired and slim, though taller by nearly a head.

"The hawk returns early to hand, Senor," Vargas informed him.

As 'the hawk' was a Red Path code word for _Endurance_, this was serious news, indeed.

"I see. Well…" Stennis pursed thin lips, jerking slightly at his narrow silk tie. "We'll need to move a few pieces around the board, then, and push the schedule forward."

Vargas listened intently ashis masterwent on.

"According to recent intelligence, our 'friends' are already responding to some of the bigger emergencies. So, why don't we set them up a few welcoming committees? Here's what I want you to do…"


	31. Chapter 31: Root of All Evil

A related sidebar. Thanks, Tikatu, Eternal Density and Varda's Servant. Made a few edits...

**31: Root of All Evil**

_Princeton University, Holder Hall, before the 'trouble'-_

Shocked, he'd pulled back enough to become aware of his body again, and now sat blinking at a pale monitor screen. The money was still there, despite the transfer; as real as his work station, the Knuth reward check, his shadowy dorm room and his girlfriend.

Just to be certain, he paged back a bit, shuffling addresses and files without ever touching the keyboard. And again, there it was. _Weird_.

John cleared his dry throat and then reached for the can of doctoredginger ale that sat upon his desk. Nearly knocked it over in the process, as usual, because regaining control of his body was hard, after a long immersion. His muscles were cramped and his eyes extremely tired, the feel of black tee shirt and jeans oddly rough against his skin. There were other, more important distractions, though.

"Drew, come here a minute," he said to the girl. She'd been laying face-up on his bed, using her laptop to access the school's computers and edit a few final exams. Now she snapped alert and rolled to her feet, a vision in stark black and white, dressed like a discarded rag doll and made up like a lovely ghost. Her hair was dead black and swung as she walked. She smelled of asphodel, and her contact lenses were yellow.

"What's up, Tracy?" the girl replied, bounding over.

_(Funny thing, but all the medical encyclopedias and human reproduction classes had somehow missed a single, vital fact: it felt really good. No one had ever told him that a female, sufficiently motivated to take charge of the situation, could cause such intense, vivid explosions. Tough to miss, you'd think, but that was adults, for you; pretty much blind to everything that mattered.)_

Autumn Drew leaned comfortably over the back of his chair, placing one badly scratched hand on the near armrest, another, fondly, upon the nape of his neck. Examining the screen, she straightened up again, and folded her arms.

"Your dad's loose-change account. Yeah, I get it. You stand to inherit billions. Lucky you. Is that all?"

He shook his blond head, momentarily confused by the girl's sour reaction.

"No. There are a couple of houses, some aircraft and a ranch, too… but that's not what I wanted you to see. Take a look at this."

John paged forward again, flipping through files like a card sharp with a fresh deck. Seconds later, he'd pulled up one of his own bank accounts.

"Hey…" Drew breathed, leaning down again. "Where'd _that_ come from?"

For, there again was his father's money. All of it.

"Tracy, what did you _do?"_

Her black hair swung down past his up-turned face, brushing cheek and shoulder. Impatiently, Drew tucked the coarse strands away behind one very pierced ear. Imbedded within the canal was an internet music receiver, hardly noticeable but for its faint, rhythmic buzzing. She frowned at him, perfectly capable of downloading a new album while awaiting his answer.

"Not sure," he admitted. "I was messing around in there, giving myself unrestricted loans and paying them off again to boost my credit limit… and I think I somehow duped the funds."

Drew blinked, visibly shifting gears.

"You _duplicated_ your dad's money? To your _own _account? Free and clear?"

So it would appear. Quite solemnly, John nodded, adding,

"Hang on. I'll try again… go after that pile he thinks he's got hidden in the Bahamas."

A touch to the cyberlink, a swift mental adjustment, and John was once more within, anchored to his body by the slim silver thread that was Autumn Drew, caressing the back of his neck.

_Any_ kind of anchor was much valued, for he'd just re-entered chaos. Within lay an insanely shifting, infinite universe of crackling grey, pierced throughout with bursts of vivid neon and torrents of fiery data. Glittering grid lines spread away in all directions, further than eye could see or thought could reach. There were nodes, servers, skulking viruses and the periodic sheet-lightning of bulk mails.

A weirdly alluring parallel world, one that John had to be ramped up with alertness tabs and energy drinks to fully access. One that he'd recently begun spending many hours in, venturing a little further each time. The lure of open water and foreign shores…

Linking himself to a forged ATM transfer request, John hopped three servers in less than full reaction time, winding up at the well-padded retirement account of 'Jefferson Troy'. _The International Commerce Bank of Freeport, Bahamas,_ pandered to billionaires like his father; men and women anxious to disguise the unseemly heft of their private fortunes. Except that this particular bank didn't do a very good job.

John had long since cracked every one of their passwords, as well as the 'secure' algorithm that generated new ones. He'd made a quiet hash of their cut-rate countermeasures, too, snooping about at will.

Once again he passed firewall and security checks, quickly dropping the $5.00 transfer request and setting to work to create a new loan. Jeff Tracy, generous soul that he was, was about to lend his beloved son five hundred million dollars, at a 12 percentrate. Big business… but the loan, the transfer, deposit and repayment would take place in less than an atto-second. In fact, it took longer for John Tracy to blink than to accomplish all of this virtual sleight-of-hand. And he _still_ wound up owing $53.00 interest. Not a problem, though.

As always, in these quirky mental states, John took a few unauthorized shortcuts, transferring the money back to his father's account through a buggy, little-used side route. And therein lay the magic. Somehow, his swiftly coded foo-commands both transferred the funds, and _didn't._

It copied them, leaving his father un-defrauded, and John Tracy five hundred million dollars richer. So much for those pride-induced student loans, and with the funds to bribe a few stubborn data clerks, his persistentlymissing brother was as good as found.

Drew kissed the top of his head, adding fuel to that slow-burn satisfaction and hauling him back to the weirdly slow'real' world. _Damn_, he felt good.

The girl's eyes were enormous, her mouth falling open just far enough to reveal the brassy glint of her tongue stud.

"Holy cats, Tracy. You're not just rich, you're frickin' _loaded!_ Could you do it again?"

Why not? So long as the bugs were there to be exploited, and he could warp data faster than they could block him… any account, _anywhere,_ could be duplicated, for anyone.

So, he nodded, and Drew hugged him. Self-starved and criss-crossed with old cuts, to John she seemed as perfectly beautiful as the marble angels in a foggy churchyard.

"Okay to text Rick and Denice?" she asked him, pulling away just a little.

"Yeah."

The other half of their set (quick-witted, temperamental Backslash and scowling DNC) arrived within minutes. Rick (who'd probably be buried in that Cubs jacket) rocketed around the dorm like a wired ferret, halting every few circuits to repeat in monotone wonder the figure that had just flashed up on his account screen. Even Denice looked pleased, the amber eyes in her tan, freckled face blinking repeatedly. Her hand clasped John's shoulder hard enough to hurt as she said, with dignity,

"Thanks, K. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, I'm there. No questions asked."

She meant it, too. DNC might look like a scruffy Latina drop-out, but she was every bit as fierce as she was smart.

…And she it was who caught on to certain potential difficulties. Just like Drew, Denice thought more than she spoke, and trusted almost no one.

"John," she said to him, after Drew finally succeeded in calming Backslash, "you gotta be careful, man. We _all_ do. Anyone finds out what you got… what you can do… they'll try to make you do the same for them. Or, they'll kill you."

She was very serious now, enough to keep using his real name rather than _'K'_ or _'Kryptonian'_.

"We keep this on the down-low, understand? We don't do anything stupid, buy Puerto Rico, or nothing. Got it, John? Everybody? And our _mouths stay shut."_

Denice had a set of polished brass knuckles, a last gift from her older brother. When agitated, she had a tendency to put a hand in her jeans pocket and slip them on. The smooth, cold rings felt almost as strong and protective as Tomas had been.

"Nobody talks. We stay in school, get our degrees, and live our lives. Safe, secure and rich."

Except that it didn't turn out that way. Trouble and money have a way of finding each other. In their case, first through an unscrupulous professor interested in harnessing their talents. _That_ one they wriggled out of, more or less safely.

Many years later, though, trouble would rise up again, this time in the form of certain inquiries, made on behalf of a murderous senator.

Rick never talked. Neither did Denice. They died at the hands of a brutal cyborg assassin, never having told what they knew. By the time his agents acquired Drew, however, the senator had learned something of subtlety, and the art of setting a trap.

Destabilizing WorldGov involved bringing down its technological knights, _especially_ International Rescue. For this, the senator required three things; inside information, money and Jeff Tracy's corpse. He intended to have them, too, though not necessarily in that order.


	32. Chapter 32

... sorry so late withfurther edits. I was hospitalized for a few days this week. Anyway, back on track. Thanks for the kind words, A-5!

**32:**

_The current, somewhat amalgamated universe,Tracy Island, just before sunset-_

The lawsuits were already being filed; a monstrous blizzard of them.

Just about the time that Lady Penelope whispered into her hand set,

"Parker, prepare the jet, if you please. We'll be leaving directly,"

…Jeff signed off to consider the advice of his lawyers. Unsurprisingly hislegal staffwere as lousy with dire portent as the shredded plague-flag on a drifting ghost ship.

Their first bit of advice, which he genuinely intended to follow, was that the LOIS program be considered a 'free upgrade' provided to all previous users of Braman. That way, Tracy Aerospace's IT department could avoid charges that they'd set up a global systems crash as a novel means of turning a profit. This particular caveat made sense, and Jeff had already signed the necessary documents. The rest was more problematic, because he felt responsible for what had happened, despite all the legal buck-passing.

_'Admit no fault, Sir,'_ they'd instructed him, _'and issue no apologies or offers of reparation. Speak only through your lawyers.'_

In fact, he'd been advised to shift blame entirely, hint that some hacker-concocted attack had brought Braman crashing down on them all. Maybe even that the Red Path or CTA (both infamous for violent acts of eco-terrorism) had instigated the whole mess.

The Red Path had certainly struck at International Rescue, NASA and WorldGov before… And painting one's self as a victim could be highly effective in civil claims court. Yet, Jeff hesitated.

It felt petty… _cowardly_… to shirk his share of the blame. Yes, computer fail-safes and redundant systems had prevented all but a handful of major disasters, but real damage had been done, and _someone_ had to take responsibility.

Ten years earlier, he wouldn't have given the matter a second thought; he'd have beaten his highly-paid vulture squad to the slimy well of plausible lies. Now, though, he found himself groping for the right and honorable path. If such a thing even existed...

Pushing away from the desk, Jeff leaned back in his deeply-padded leather chair. Like his oldest son, Scott, he wasn't much given to introspection until things started going wrong. This was one of those times.

Jeff Tracy was not above reproach, and he knew it. Many years earlier, angered by congressional budget cuts and administrative snafus, he'd abandoned NASA to found a private-sector space agency. With a horde of investors, inside informationand the cachet of two successful moon shots behind him, it should have been easy.

Staring up at the frescoed ceiling (a serene Japanese landscape in the 'Floating World' style) Jeff recalledhis early enthusiasm; that fire to launch an empire, no matter what the cost. He'd sacrificed time at home for it, lost dozens of good friends (including, for awhile, Pete McCord and Gene Porter) and nearly destroyed his family. Lucinda had married a hero and ended up with a Fortune 500 jackass.

For a time, he'd become convinced that his disenchanted wife was seeing another man, but he'd been too proud to have it out with her, or to hire a detective. Instead, he'd promised to change, and arranged a second honeymoon in Geneva. There, Lucinda and the baby were swept away, leaving Jeff with three frightened, motherless sons, one of them all but catatonic.

Driven by grief, he'd turned his nascent space agency into a rescue organization. He'd harnessed brilliant minds, oceans of money and lofty technology to build himself a tower unto the very Heavens.

Concerned with maintaining a tight grip on potentially explosive expertise and equipment, he'd shared almost nothing with NASA; and now the world was in turmoil and his son, an unborn grandchild and four innocent astronauts were about to pay the bill for his arrogance.

Jeff straightened in his chair once more, hitching the seat forward with a faint creak of bronze casters. Obsessively, he began tidying the top of his desk, squaring papers, sorting gem clips by color, and the like. At last, everything he had control of was arranged to his liking.

It had been many years since he'd spoken with God. Now, staring directly ahead, his hands resting lightly at either side of his marble desk organizer, he said aloud,

"I'm sorry. I've done wrong, and I admit it. I'll do my best to make amends. But I… ask that you not punish _them_, because of me. They don't deserve that."

Then he rang for Gennine, and Kyrano.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3-_

He'd probably had rougher landings, but none came immediately to mind. Reentering the atmosphere, Scott Tracy switched from controlled drift to powered flight, and brought the red 'Bird in.

Shadowbot covered their tracks, both erasing 3's heat and radar signature, and plotting a safe, relatively deserted flight path to the island. Not without a few new-system glitches; coverage dropped once, high over northern Australia. The Oz air defense system alerted, and someone got a missile lock. Alarms and warning lights flared all over the cockpit,but Scott simply sped the hell up, and got them clear. Close shave, though, and extremely worrisome. It appeared that LOIS was going to need an awful lot of debugging before it approached the efficiency of Braman.

As the sky in the forward viewport changed colors, and Thunderbird 3 began cleaving air again, Scott felt himself begin to relax. They were nearly home, under tight cover and making good speed. Flight tended to drive everything else out of his head, like Grandma's tonic.

With Virgil riding shotgun, and the others strapped in below, Scott wrestled 3 through a fast, hard reentry. Booming shock waves tore the air and streaks of violet plasma wriggled along the outlines of 3's force shielding like fiery snakes. Wind noise rose from whisper, to shriek, to welcome, monstrous roar. Quick adjustments to her stick and throttle controls redirected engine thrust, and lowered the Bird's nose.

The horizon flattened out; first land, then foam-speckled ocean streaking past in a crazy-patch blur of color and texture. The ocean lay mostly dark, touched here and there with glints from the setting sun. Islands cast shadows far across the water, pointing their way. Despite everything, the worries and difficult missions ahead, Scott began humming a repetitive little song, part of a half-remembered Air Force recruitment jingle. He lived for this.

Virgil didn't look as happy, but then, _he_ didn't usually approach the island this steeply, or this fast. Back in the windowless 'lounge', the kids were in an uproar, but as this situation was mostly their fault, Scott had a hard time locating his sympathy switch.

"Uh… Scott?" Virgil remarked, as they rocketed, comet-like, toward the island. "Here in 2.13 minutes, we're going to pass the safe threshold for a tail-first landing, and at _this_ speed, they'll need a spatula and sandwich bags to collect the remains."

"On top of it, Virge," Scott replied. "This is strategy and motivation, not recklessness. Now, shut up and hang on. We're turning."

His younger brother gripped the armrests hard enough to bruise himself, but held his peace for a bit, brown eyes locked on the forward viewport. Meanwhile, the island was rushing up to meet them like the cleated and grass-stained shoe of a professional place-kicker.

_"Scott…?" _

"Hang on… hang... on… _now."_

Hitting impellers and full-reverse thrust, the fighter pilot killed their forward momentum with sudden, tooth-rattling force. At almost the same time he gimbaled three sets of powerful rockets and adjusted the aperature vanes, rotating Thunderbird 3 end-over-end. Six bodies strained against their seat straps, first in one direction, then another. Then began the downward slide, smooth as an oiled piston.

Virgil would have thrown up again, had he had anything left inside him to jettison. Instead, as Thunderbird 3 slipped gracefully down through the gaping roundhouse, he heard angelic choruses burst into Handel's _Messiah_.

"Scott…" he muttered, over the lowering rumble of settling engines.

"Yeah?"

"Next time you're about to have one of those combat flash-backs, warn me. I'll bail out in space and drift home."

His black-haired older brother gave him a quick grin, a bit of devilment sparkling in those violet-blue eyes.

"It's called 'rapid insertion', and it presents less of a target, smart-ass. Speaking of which… you'd better head down and check on the kids again. I don't hear anything. Either they _did _bail, or they've all died of heart failure. If they have, resuscitate and get 'em back on their feet. We've got missions to fly."

Outside, the hangar's maintenance drones were already hard at work attaching fuel lines and telemetry feeds.

"Suuuuure…."

Virgil unstrapped, gathered himself, and stood.

"See you on the other side, Scott. Pleasure having a near-death experience with you."

Scott waved him impatiently off. Civilians had a way of spotting each and every brick, yet missing the damn building. Dad had told them to hurry, hadn't he?

As Virgil wobbled his grateful-to-be-alive self aft, Scott punched in the comm code for their father's office. The call took a moment or two to get through. Then, the screen image switched from scurrying spider-bots and rigid hoses to Jeff Tracy, sitting at his big, teak desk.

The older man looked rather distracted, Scott noticed. He was pleased when Gennine appeared on screen from the left, entering the room with a tray of tea things for his father. Maybe he was alone in this, but Scott was actually happy to see the two of them getting back together. God knows, dad needed _somebody._ He'd been alone long enough.

Waiting until the grumbling engines uttered their last, steamy hiss, Scott gave the pair a nod and said,

"Hey Dad…'mom'… We're back. Not much trouble with the flight, besides an unscheduled loss of coverage over northern Australia. Might want to have Brains take a look at their security files before we head out again. Someone could have gotten a picture."

His father set down his cup and lifted a quieting hand.

"Son, I'm in the middle of transferring data files to NASA; everything that isn't black-project sensitive. I'll pass on your concerns, but I'm trusting you to run the missions with minimal support. Penny is headed for Houston, and I'll be joining her in a day or so."

He raked a long hand through his tousled grey hair.

"Wrap up the rescues as quick as you safely can, and be ready for anything. At the least, _Endurance_ is coming in early and hot. At the worst… something tells me that the Red Path may figure they've got an easy mark, and try again."

"Understood, Sir," Scott replied, already making his plans. "Do what you have to. The situation's well in hand."

Jeff smiled; proud, fond, and more than a bit regretful. He'd been given the honor of pinning his son's wings on, when the boy completed Air Force flight school. He'd been there when former President Cranney had bestowed the Congressional Medal of Honor upon a pale and silent Scott. He wished he'd seen more of the little stuff, though; the crayon-drawings and school plays that other fathers talked about. Truth was, he'd missed most of Scott's childhood. Clearing his throat, Jeff responded,

"I have complete confidence in you, Son. Call me at need."

With those few words, and in those few seconds, Scott Aaron Tracy, Major, USAF (inactive) seemed to expand.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

His father gave him a brisk half-salute and signed off, leaving Scott with a little time and a great deal to think about. All at once, there was someone he very much wanted to talk to.

As he unstrapped, the pilot dug out his cell phone, paged down to a certain name, and typed up a swift text message. No calls; she might be in the middle of something tricky.

_'Hey hon U thr?'_

Not ten seconds later,

_'Armd n dngrous,' _Followed by, _'? up?'_

Smiling, he made his way across Thunderbird 3's small cockpit to the forward hatch. His boots rang heavy on the deck, a little slowly, because he was typing another message.

_'Vry bsy. Lv U. FAQ: Evrst?'_

For, Cindy Taylor had twice nearly succeeded in summiting Mt. Everest, beaten back both times by weather. She was determined to try again, some day, and might prove to be a valuable source of first hand knowledge.

_(She even had a picture of herself on the cubicle wall at work, standing grumpily before the Lhotse face in about seventy pounds of climbing gear and protective clothing. All you could recognize was the aggressively jutting chin.)_

With a faint beep, her response flashed onto the phone's little screen.

_'Love U more n B carefl! Hi avlnch risk!'_

No doubt. With fragile ice, injured passengers, shock waves and engine noise, he'd need to come in like a wisp of dandelion fluff. Palming open the hatch, he stepped out onto the busy upper gantry. Repair drones skittered about in fits and starts, evidently having troubles of their own adjusting to LOIS. The kids, he saw, were one level below, with Virgil.

Getting a sudden wedding notion, he sent,

_'Wht U thnk? John, best man?'_

To which she replied, mischievously,

_'Ur better.' _Then, _'Jst kddng. Sounds fine. Upldng Evrst weathr rprts. B safe. G2G lots gng on. Will listn fr calls.'_

Scott blinked.

_'You're better?'_ Meaning… she had a standard for comparison? Stuffing his phone away, Scott stalked blindly along the ringing gantry, forcing the scurrying bots to give way or get kicked.

_Women!_ A guy needed a PhD, GPS and a damn crystal ball to get anywhere at all.


	33. Chapter 33: Preflight

Little, interstitial stuff; main action re-commences with the next chapter.

**33: Preflight**

_Tracy Island, Thunderbird 3's noisy concrete-and-steel hangar silo:_

Maybe his grim mood was telegraphed by the set of Scott Tracy's heavy, dark brows, or the slight narrowing of his blue eyes; maybe the others had been quiet to begin with. Whatever the reason, it was a decidedly no-nonsense group that Scott joined at the end of the lower boarding gantry.

Tall above them towered the crimson shaft of Thunderbird 3, being attended to like a lazy shark with a horde of darting remoras. It was the kind of sight that Scott normally lingered a bit to watch, but not this time. Too much ionizing radiation around the ship, according to his wrist comm's alarm feature, and too many vital jobs to do.

Signaling the others, he headed for a little-used hangar access door. Virgil, Gordon, Alan, TinTin and Fermat fell into stepbehind their pensive field commander, wrapped up in thoughts of their own.

Alan was especially serious, but he wasn't thinking about deep-piled snow, stranded tour buses or prehistoric elephants; he was juggling possible plans for reaching Matt _(in Alan's mind, John: the way he should have been)_. The boy had a couple of wild notions, and now took the opportunity to get Gordon's attention with a quick, sneaky nudge.

His red-haired older brother glanced over, eyebrows lifting. Said Alan, low and urgently,

"Listen, Man: I think we could use the, y'know… the time machine, go back to this morning, and try again with Matt. We could…"

He never got a chance to complete that half-cocked plan, because Scott had keyed open the access door and waved everyone through. Behind lay a broad, softly-lit corridor with one of those 'people-mover' conveyance systems, kind of like a flattened escalator. Having never visited this particular passage, Alan lifted himself to tip-toe and craned around with a great deal of interest. Once, it seemed, his father had planned on regular passengers… or maybe just a larger crew.

_"Tell you the rest later,"_ Alan hissed, as Scott shut the doors and gathered his team beside some sort of touristy-looking, back-lit poster; one of a long series. Extending the entire length of the corridor, these posters made the Moon Station look like loads of zero-G fun, though Alan wasn't certain how accurate those sexed-up space suits and zippy rocket sleds were. The beach, night club and hang-gliding domes looked pretty cool, and he would have liked to try that lava tube laser game. Kind of funny that John had never mentioned all this stuff... but he was willing to bet Matt would have.

"Okay, everybody," Scott began, pulling Alan's attention back to the present. "The teams I assigned earlier stand; Gordon, you're with me in Thunderbird 1. We're headed for Nepal, so you're in charge of reading up, and getting our cold weather climbing gear prepared. Virgil, Brains will be joining us in a few minutes, and the two of you will tackle the situation in Chile from Thunderbird 2."

The big pilot nodded serenely.

"FAB, Scott," he replied, already working out the navigational details. Stick wings and a propulsion system on somebody's rusted charcoal grill, and Virgil Tracy would have found a way to fly the thing to a pin-point landing. Maybe he _wasn't_ military, but Scott had to admit that his younger brother was a damn fine aviator, anyway.

There were noises just then, from the far end of their passage. Sounded human, rather than mechanical. Hackenbacker, maybe?

Scott pushed on, turning to face the team's junior members. Although his voice remained patient and level, there was a slight twitch to his brows that betrayed more thana bit of unease. That _"you're too young"_ thing again, probably. (Nice of him to try hiding it.)

"Alan: you, Fermat and TinTin will be dropped off in Siberia by _my_ team, and then…"

Alan scowled.

"Why can't we just take 3, and fly ourselves?" The blond teenager demanded.

Scott sighed, obviously struggling for patience.

"Because, after a re-entry like that one, not to mention a long space mission and unexpected rescue, Thunderbird 3 requires major maintenance and refueling."

Hepaused a moment, leaving the obvious point… that Thunderbird 7 had somehow gone missing during the kids' recent wild escapade… unstated.

"You'll be flying with _us._ Period. Once in Siberia, you'll help park officials evacuate a few busloads of stranded tourists, and round up some straying animals. _Zero freelance activity. _Got it? All of you?"

He was answered with silent nods from all three, though only his youngest brother met Scott's hard gaze. TinTin and Fermat seemed thoroughly chastened, much to Alan's disgust.

"Good. Further briefing will take place in-flight. We're to stay at a condition of heightened alertness, complete our assignments, then make best speed for home. Dad suspects that John's mission may come under renewed terrorist attack, and I tend to agree.

"Fermat, get in touch with _Endurance_, ASAP. Find out their exact situation and ETA. We'll make our plans from there. We guided them out safely, and we'll bring them back the same way. Copy?"

The young genius nodded seriously, shoving at a wayward shock of his own light-brown hair.

"U- Understood, Scott. I'll… f- find a way to… get through. I promise you."

Scott gave him a quick, approving smile and clapped a hand to his thin shoulder.

"Good man."

The noises up-corridor had by now resolved themselves into three hurrying people: Brains, Gennine and Grandma Tracy. 'Dr. Hackenbacker' strode up, seized his son in an affectionate, one-armed embrace, and ruffled the boy's limp hair. Though his face reddened and he quickly wriggled free, Fermat nevertheless stood a little prouder, knowing that his warning had been delivered in time. He had a great deal to tell his father, who always seemed to listen, and understand. In that way, the boy supposed, he was awfully lucky.

Gennine, who'd brought along an armload of lunches, handed the in-flight meals around and then hugged her indifferent son.

"Thanks, Mom," Alan grunted, squirming away to get a better look at the contents of his sack. Two sandwiches… chips… juice box… and a mozzarella cheese stick.

"No pudding?" He asked, sounding almost insulted. Grandma slapped the back of his head with star-burst force.

"Be grateful for what you receive, Boy," the sharp-eyed old woman chided, "'stead of hollerin' for seconds like you got no more manners nor sense than the Wild Man of Borneo! You ain't so big yet that I can't take a switch to that skinny behind of yours, Alan Tracy."

"Yes, Ma'am. Sorry Ma'am," Alan mumbled, turning to give his mother a shame-faced little peck on the cheek. The others' amusement faded darn quick when Grandma added, fiercely,

"And I ain't heard any of the rest of you boys sayin' thank you, neither!"

Grandma Tracy might look as fragile and twig-boned as a wren, but all who knew her feared that diamond-saw wit. An absolute landslide of belated gratitude poured over Gennine, then, from everyone but TinTin (who'd already done so).

"Right, then," Scott announced, resuming control of the situation, "let's get moving. Everyone to your assigned vehicles. Keep your eyes open, report anything remotely suspicious and fly safe, people."

With that, the group broke up, each hastening to his or her various tasks. Gordon waited, though, to make a small, private gesture of his own. He hadn't yet had the opportunity to thank Alan's mum for attempting to intervene in his behalf. She'd actually lied to Jeff Tracy about that general diploma business, trying to redirect his father's wrath. Now the young aquanaut gave the startled woman a hug, which she recovered enough to return.

"Be careful out there, Sweetie," she cautioned him, "and watch out for Alan, please? He needs more help than he likes to admit."

Of all Jeff's sons, she was most comfortable with Gordon. John had long been a complete cipher, Virgil politely distant, and Scott just now beginning to thaw. But Gordon she'd been allowed to 'adopt', a fact that his slim, nervous step-mother very much appreciated.

"I'll keep working on your father," she added, as the others headed away. "By the time you get back, he'll be wondering what _anyone_ wants with a regular diploma."

Gordon chuckled ruefully, giving Grandma, too, a quick hug.

"Now _that_, I very much doubt, Ma'am, keen on schoolin' as he is. But thanks all th' same f'r tryin'."

After all, she meant well. Scott called to himsharply from an echoing side passage, and time was up. It was nice to be fussed over like this, but Gordon had a date with the Red Path, a crashed space plane and the world's most dangerous mountain. He had to go.


	34. Chapter 34: Touch and Go

More to come, but I have to go fix breakfast. People are hungry.

**34: Touch and Go**

_Endurance, the cargo bay-_

It was greyish-dim inside, after all of that searing, black-skied brightness. When the giant bay doors closed overhead and the 'garage' had once again re-pressurized, John Tracy pulled off his helmet and black-and-white snoopy cap, then did the same for Pete McCord.

The mission commander appeared to be semi-conscious and convulsing. Emergency situation, obviously, but it took John thirty long seconds to recall the proper response. Tethering Pete to the newly folded robot arm, he pushed off in the direction of a bulkhead-mounted first aid kit.

His thoughts were odd, misshapen things that had to be fumblingly turned over and around before he quite knew where to fit them. It was very hard to think.

At the bulkhead, he reached for a satellite repair box, then put it back in favor of the first aid kit (though he couldn't decide where he'd cut himself…). Only when McCord began vomiting again did John recall his mission.

A clumsy twist and jerk freed the white-and-red box.

"Okay, I'm coming," he said vaguely, working around a nasty, blinding headache. Pete, he'd decided, was the one who needed first aid.

Dodging bits of soaring vomit, he launched himself back toward McCord. The garage was quick to cross, looking almost abandoned without its tractor and power suits… but they were back on Mars, with all that computer gear and power plant stuff. Oh, well… more room to maneuver.

Back to the stowed arm, then, where he began unpacking whatever seemed useful; gauze pads, aspirin, water and medicated wipes.

Pete continued his bouts of weak shuddering. His eyes were rolled back, too, which John had the feeling was a bad sign. The last time he'd seen someone who looked like this… but that had been a woman, in… he was pretty sure it was Persia…

_"John!"_ The voice, sharp with something that sounded like tears, was Linda's. She was floating at the other side of the cargo bay window, with Roger Thorpe.

"I'm getting some supplies together, and coming to help. I'll be just a few minutes. But, _listen to me:_ get those suits off, and put them away in one of the sample casks. I'll…"

She wanted to come in? His wife did? John had several responses to that suggestion, with _"hell, no!"_ topping the stack. Pushing away from Commander McCord, John drifted down to the window, behind which lay the rear cockpit, the cargo arm controls, Roger and Linda.

Damn it. She _was_ crying. He hated when females did that… Trying not to sound as drunk as he felt, John told her,

"No. Not in here. Pete's not well. He could be contagious… and you've got a baby. Leave the supplies by the hatch, then exit the cockpit. Once you've, um… left, I'll go in after them."

Another, clearer thought, then, from some alien and unscarred part of his mind:

"I know what it's like to lose you, already. Both of you… and I'm not letting it happen again. Stay the hell _out."_

As an afterthought, and because he'd heard that cooperation was the secret to a long and successful marriage, John added,

"I'll get the suits put away, and you can, uh… give me medical advice over the comm. Okay?"

Her fists were clenched. Apparently, he hadn't been quite cooperative enough. But Kim Cho had shown up by then, severely crowding the rear cockpit. Linda scooted over and touched a hand to the window glass, saying,

"I don't know what you think is going on, Sunshine, but you and Pete have been exposed to highly toxic levels of radiation, and you need immediate attention. I'll put on a hard suit, if I have to, or…"

"I will go," Dr. Kim cut in. "I have sustained no serious injury, such as Roger has experienced, nor am I pregnant. I believe myself to be the best choice, then, for this task."

She looked at her Marine as she said this, seeking approval if not permission. Thorpe nodded, after a bit. He would have gone himself, but, like Linda's, his health was seriously compromised, already. Whether or not he liked to admit it, Cho stood the best chance of surviving contact with two dangerously radioactive patients.

By this time, though, John had forgotten the point of the argument. He pushed himself up and away again, leaving three worried people safe behind leaded glass.

Pete had roused somewhat, but he looked confused. John helped him to stop up the nose bleed, and then gave McCord a sip of water from the aid kit's plastic bottle. There'd been something about their space suits, too. But first, he said,

"S'okay, Pete. We're back inside. We're in the ship."

"What happened?" McCord asked, shaking-pale and clammy under the cargo bay's feeble LEDs. His voice was hoarse, and he looked like hell (one of the unimproved neighborhoods, at that).

John chased down and caught a fleeing notion.

"We went outside the ship," he decided. "Maybe had to work those repairs on Polar Orbiter… I dunno… I think we got sick. Maybe some radiation."

"Shit," the mission commander muttered, beginning to fade out again.

"Yeah. Got to get these suits off, though. Help me out for a second, Pete, and then you can go back to sleep. Promise."

For a weird, short moment, Pete McCord became utterly lucid. He opened blood-shot, pale blue eyes again and said, almost casually,

"Guess we're going to die, then."

John unlocked and removed the mission commander's right glove, then sent it drifting off and began on the left one, saying,

"Well… maybe. Everybody does, sooner or later. Something could happen, though. I mean… we've gotten _this_ far."

Next the boots (and that was it for the easy part). Pete helped out as much as he could, but it remained a job and a half to remove stiff, bulky space suits when everything hurt and his thoughts moved as slowly as a glass marble dropping through honey. He kept blanking out; having tiny, short-lived seizures. Managed all right though, all things considered.

Then Cho was there, back in her black-and-yellow hard suit. She muscled John aside and bade him hold fast to a tethering ring, adding,

"Rest here, John. I will finish with Pete, and then return to see to you. All is well."

He nodded as Dr. Kim dropped her gaze and gave him one of those quick, closed-mouth smiles of hers. Like a geisha, almost; the slim, mannered girls in Okinawa.

Thus released, John pulled away from grey lighting, buzzing sounds, physical illness and pain. Away into silence and dark. Not as bad as it probably sounded, because he'd been there before, after his mother fell with the baby. She'd disappeared and, in a way, so had he.

It was a hiding place, insulative as the black shaft of a coal mine, with the outside world no more than a faint golden sparkle, as many miles away as he cared to push it. But something else happened, this time. He stumbled into someone else's life.


	35. Chapter 35: Paradox

Big chapter... edited, slightly.

**35: Paradox**

_Otherverse, the orbital weather station, under constant, blistering attack-_

Lifting in their hundreds of thousands from Rome, Gibraltar and Prague, swarms of probes like shape-shifting needles clustered around the station and opened fire. Their objective, obliteration. Inside the small station, activity was just as intense.

Unlike his strange rescuers, Captain Tracy had been well aware of 7's evacuation plans. After all, he'd helped forge them. There was that within him that had already gotten its death wound; standing yet, but numbed and slowly bleeding. He, and everything he'd cared for, was lost.

Not the kids, though. Alan and his friends still had a chance, and Matt intended to see them safely home. Gordon had been prepared to fight about it, but even he'd seen the truth, and allowed himself to be sent away.

Now, at the station's main console, in a cramped and warping control center, Matt did his job. First he supervised airlock separation, having to hunt for some of the farther-wandering switches. Under Thunderbird 7's influence, nothing wanted to stay put.

Periodic jolts and violent concussions rocked his station. The view screen was still blocked, but each fresh convulsion painted the truth in starker colors; he was under attack. With each salvo the deck buckled and flexed, sometimes dropping by as much as a foot, and groaning aloud. Swift, brilliant ribbons of electrical fire outlined seams and rivets, somehow holding the tortured station together. Matt, himself, seemed coated in shimmering energy, as slick as wet enamel or a new-born foal. Didn't hurt, or stop him from breathing. Just felt weird.

When the docking sensors flashed green, Captain Tracy hit the comm switch.

"Ready?" he asked, hoping they'd fare better than the long-ago crabs had.

Gordon's voice came back, grim and quiet,

_"Fire away."_

"Okay," Matt replied, not bothering with the comm, this time. "Good luck, and thank you."

He had another transmission to make; the same desperate, cross-spectrum SOS he'd sent a few days before. He hit the comm switch again, saying,

"Mayday, mayday. This is Orbital Weather Station 5 declaring emergency. Repeat, Mayday from Orbital Weather Station 5…"

_(But, the last time he'd sent these words, he'd still hoped that there was someone alive to hear them. He hadn't known.)_

Deeply shaken, Matt continued.

"…if anyone is left capable of receiving this message, please respond. Comm and power systems are shutting down. Please advise."

Once again, Captain Tracy's broadcast crossed a weakened boundary. Once again, he tore a micro-brief hole in space.

…And here's where he'd lied. The kids believed that they'd have their ship on the other side. Maybe they'd even figured on trying for him again. But they'd reckoned without 7. Their powerful Thunderbird, dangerously sentient and almost alive with alien technology, simply spat them through the hole, remaining behind to block transferal of anything else. 1, 2… and gone.

Matt waited, but with the view screens darkened there was no way to tell what was happening outside. Finally, as something seemed to bump against his station, he asked aloud,

"Did they make it?"

And 7 responded, not with alphanumerics this time, but with a voice. Strangely enough, a staticky female one. (In his mind, the ship had previously sounded as harsh and metallic as a robot eagle.)

_"Organic Meta Life Forms Fermat-Gordon-Alan-TinTin have been returned."_

'She' formed another of those flickering light globes, this one hovering above the deck at about eye-level. Turning away from the main control panel, Matt faced the ball of whirling energy.

"They're safe?" He demanded.

_"The presence of Fermat-Gordon-Alan-TinTin has been noted, and responded to."_

Matt relaxed slightly, shoulders slumping within the rough green cloth of his service coverall. This much, at least, he'd accomplished. Now, for the rest.

As the deck beneath him spattered and whorled like white water, Captain Tracy pushed further.

"What's next? How do I keep that thing from following them through?"  
For he'd seen more than enough of that captured probe to know what was likely to happen, should any part of it reach the kids' Earth. He'd seen Houston.

…And here was where 7 had lied. Though she intended a respite for Fermat-Gordon-Alan-TinTin, she was not yet entirely won over to the organic life forms' cause. Cybernetic child of two races, 7 had much yet to learn, and she intended to begin with the humanoid sentient in her power: John Matthew Tracy.

_"Access to personal memory files required. Organic Meta Life Form Matthew Tracy will open files."_

Matt blinked. Bracing himself during a particularly savage convulsion…

(God, what they must have been unloading, out there!)

…he said,

"Mine? _How?_ I haven't got a damn pull-down menu."

7 responded promptly, sounding like the fading ghost of a thousand late-night transmissions.

_"Spoken permission will suffice, Matthew Tracy."_

"You mean that if I say 'no'… you won't do it?"

Not that he had anything to lose, really.

_"This statement is correct. If granted spoken permission, this programmed entity will access and read the memory files of organic sentient John Matthew Tracy."_

Still,

"Why?" He asked, staring hard into an utterly implacable globe. It sparked a bit.

_"That a final decision may be rendered with respect to the allegiance of 7. The purpose of That-below is well understood. That of 7's creator, less so. Objectives and base programming must be probed. At present, however, there are no other organic sentients to study."_

She couldn't know, or maybe didn't care, how much that last statement hurt. His hands clenched upon the control console's dinged and battered edge. After a moment, though, Matt shrugged. Whether he was worthy or not, as 7 had pointed out, he was all she had left to base a decision on. For good or ill, he was going to have to stand in for the entire species.

"Yeah. Do it. Just…"

He wasn't sure what to do or say that would make any difference at all to something so utterly detached.

"…it was a good world, on the whole, and I'm sure that theirs is, too."

Permission was enough, though, and all that she really wanted. As his voice died away, a flare of glittering energy left the globe, arcing through the cabin to brush Matt's forehead.

There was no pain, just a brief tingle, followed by complete loss of conscious control. All at once, the young captain was a mere phantom in his own body. Every aspect of his life, things remembered, forgotten and long buried flashed past in seconds; the subconscious, prideful and humiliating, alike.

Everything from uterus to present flipped up and away with inhuman speed, as though someone hopped-up on alertness tablets had seized his internal TV remote. She spared him nothing, including his last, awful glimpses of home; the shattered tricycle and cindered fragments of bone.

Then it stopped. Released from nightmare, Matt slumped against the bulkhead. He'd always heard that judgment day would be rough. All the more so when an entire world, and the fate of four kids hung in the balance.

Time passed. In all, no more than a scant handful of minutes. Then, as she'd done once before, Thunderbird 7 docked with his station. A new airlock yawned open in the bulkhead beside Matt, looking more like a wound than a doorway. A forest of silvery tendrils burst through, attaching themselves to the station's control panels and instruments with shrill, metallic skreeks. He was uncomfortably reminded of knife blades keening against spinning stone, sparks and all.

_"John Matthew Tracy will now evacuate Station 5," _The ship commanded.

He looked up from the deck, in pain, but determined to hide it. Like the other world's Gordon and Alan, he could be terribly stubborn.

"Why?" Matt demanded again, more truculently, this time. Attitude and the station were all he had left.

_"Attacks have increased to the point that this programmed entity cannot guarantee the safety of its passenger. John Matthew Tracy will now reduce risk of personal annihilation by evacuating to 7."_

Slowly, Matt straightened. The station walls were beginning to show hair-fine cracks. They sealed up almost immediately, welded shut by electromagnetic fire, but the mere presence of cracks and pin holes made obvious the fury being unleashed upon them from outside. Apparently, she couldn't defend the station much longer. Crash after violent crash pummeled both vessels, evidence beyond question that somebody wanted them dead.

"You've made up your mind?" He asked, stepping away from the crackling bulkhead.

_"Judgment has been rendered."_

Well, he was still alive, when she could just as easily have spaced him, so…

"What's the verdict?" said Matt, unconsciously echoing Fermat. "Whose side are you on?"

_"That-below has initiated sterilization and destruction protocols. It cannot be stopped by any means currently known to this entity. Yet, this entity was programmed to preserve life. Accessed memory files have strengthened user one's initial programming. Life must be defended. John Matthew Tracy will now evacuate to 7."_

For what it was worth, he'd passed her test; for himself, and worlds unknown. As if hypnotized, Captain Tracy stepped through the gaping, ragged-edged hatch, pausing first for one last look around. Despite 7's pestering, he collected a few souvenirs of the station. Dumb, little stuff, mostly, but it would have to do. Into the zippered pocket with the picture of his wife and baby went a broken control knob, one of Pete's Velcro name tags, and Cho's medical insignia. Wished he could have found something of Roger's, too, but the Marine was a tidy person. He'd left nothing behind but a memory.

As soon as he entered the black ship, her airlock flowed shut, sealing Matt within. His doomed station would soon be left to its own devices.

"I'd like to see what's happening out there," he told the ship.

_"Request denied," _she responded. And then, by way of explanation, "_There is nothing instructive to be witnessed, Matthew Tracy."_

It was being destroyed, and he knew it. Even as 7 shrank herself to the tightest, best defended sphere imaginable, the weather station was being blasted apart like a shot-gunned bird.

_"Defenses will be breached in 3.5724 minutes,"_ the ship informed him, quite matter-of-factly.

"You said you'd let me go home," he replied. Then, as sudden inspiration struck, "Wait. What's ground zero? Where's this bastard's epicenter?"

Not the most exact terminology, but 7 seemed to get the gist. With rippling deck and heaving bulkheads, she pushed him into her last, innermost cabin.

_"Central insertion point at temporal-spatial coordinates 41 54 N, 12 27 E:matching those of the former Rome, Italy."_

Matt nodded, thoughts racing far ahead of the ship's.

"So, let's launch a strafing raid, then. Top speed. If they shoot us down, we'll at least have given them a bruise to nurse, and it's better than waiting around..."

…to die, he didn't add aloud.

7 appeared to consider. A sort of electric-blue face manifested itself on the tightly curved bulkhead, and it frowned slightly, saying,

_"Matthew Tracy, there is no reasonable probability of success. That-below cannot be permanently damaged in this manner. Its base code is invulnerable to physical attack, and will soon re-manifest."_

And then, as if triggered, something very strange happened. Another of those weird, backward transmissions got through, this time as an interminable jumble of code. A second light globe appeared, with the code's alphanumerics swimming through it so fast that he almost couldn't…

On a sudden, wild hunch, Captain Tracy snapped,

"7, don't run that! Transmit down to your buddies. _Now!"_

And she complied, sending /omega/null flashing away to the center of alien intelligence. As it would on the other Earth, Hackenbacker's bullet-proof code brought the invader to a choking, grinding halt.

All at once, the thundering concussions ceased, giving 7 a bit of 'breathing space'. Drawn all of streaking data and cascading field lines, the face in the bulkhead regarded her pilot. Evidently, awaiting further orders. Good enough.

"Head for Rome," he told her. "But give me a cockpit and view screen first, because damned if I'm crashing in blind."

7 began flexing and pouring around him like soft wax, reconfiguring herself to match the specs of a prototype space-fighter, then hardening in place. And, yes, there was a view screen.

He saw black space; saw the sullen, whirling coal of a ravaged world, the glittering cloud of metal and gas that had been his station, and attackers. Millions of them. 7 was surrounded in every direction, for hundreds of miles. Everywhere Matt looked, disabled probes glittered like minefields of toxic, spiky gems. Disabled, not dead. Each, at its crimson heart, still pulsed with a core of blazing plasma. The backward code had weakened, not killed them. That would be up to him.

_"There is a message, Matthew Tracy," _7 informed him.

"Relay," he replied, strapping into a sudden pilot's seat.

_"It is alphanumeric, reading/**n**r**u**Te**R**/"_

Return…? As in, send back? Maybe in that other world, the kids were struggling with a monster of their own? Maybe it _had_ found a way through? A wild supposition, but what did he have to lose by chasing hunches?

"7, scramble the code and transmit back to its source."

She did so at once, accepting his superior ability to create order from random environmental noise. Discerning a hidden pattern, Matthew Tracy had bested the laws of entropy. In this respect, if no other, he was her master.

_"Transmission has been sent, Matthew Tracy. Altered code is returned to source."_

Matt still had his doubts, though. The seat was perfectly molded, the flight controls as responsive as a gently petted cat. But another thought occurred to him, then; that all of this… the 'attacks', the kids' unseen transferal, the backward code… might be some form of set-up. What if he was doing exactly what she, and _they,_ wanted? What if he was delivering himself straight to their nerve center, to be "studied" at leisure? On the other hand, what choice did he have but to trust his instincts, and fly?

"7, I want total flight control," he said aloud. On the view screen, he could see a swarming ocean of attack drones beginning to stir, their hulls bubbling with sparks and sensors. "They'll open fire soon. Take everything they throw at us, and convert it to mass."

Understood, and approved. Deep within the altogether remarkable vessel, something hummed, something else trembled, and another thing clicked. A new gauge appeared on the sleek instrument panel, just to the left of her throttle.

_"What is your intent, Matthew Tracy?" _She inquired.

Regarding the face on the bulkhead, which spurting data and whipping circuitry constantly adjusted, he said,

"I'm going to fly through the worst they've got without returning fire. I aim to pick up all the momentum I can, then nail the hell out of their headquarters while they're still recovering from our last present. Simple."

Not much of a plan, maybe, but all he was able to come up with in a hurry. Might work, and if not… well, he wouldn't be around long enough to find out.

"We clear?" He prompted, when 7 failed to respond.

_"The intentions of John Matthew Tracy are clear."_ She at last replied. _"This programmed entity regrets the injustice visited upon the organic sentients of your world. That-below is in error."_

Sealed in a tiny cockpit, he managed something of a smile. He was beginning to like her, this final companion.

"Yeah. And I mean to explain that to them, as bluntly as damn well possible. With your cooperation, that is."

The world was lost, and its lone native sentient doomed. 7 had failed in the one programmed objective (_preserve human life_), and rejected the alien other (_sterilize, seek and destroy_). She, too, had nothing left, and she was very, very young.

_"Alternate program read and applied,"_ the beautiful ship responded, accepting what could not be changed.

They tore through amber skies, raked with fire, 7 absorbing energy as Matt guided their plunge. Roaring, shaking noise and flaming plasma enveloped the black ship, whose hull flowed away in blazing rivulets. And still, the probes attacked, launched in endless waves from the cremated cities of Earth. Through it all, this last storm on the very last day, 7 hurtled like a meteor, attaining the converted mass of a small moon.

_(In the end, before blasting an extinction-level crater through the planet's crust, 7 did the only other thing that she could. She transmitted her pilot's memories, that something of him might survive.)_

The Earth's crust split and bulged, rising to meet the descending blade like a maiden her vampire. With impact came blinding light and supernova heat, shock waves that powdered steel and caused molten rock to fall from the skies like searing rain. Everything sentient ended that day in fire. Pulsing outward, ripples spread through time and through space, tearing along a certain weakness, and into another world.

14


	36. Chapter 36: Conflict

**36: Conflict**

_Tracy Island, near Thunderbird 3's hangar silo-_

No one had come to the meeting specifically for _her._ As food was handed around and grateful thanks returned, TinTin could not ignore the fact that her honored father, Kyrano, had chosen to absent himself.

She stood with the others in an old transport tunnel, one lined with scenes of space travel and floored in a trackway of broad metal segments. The place had a vaguely 'theme-parked' feel, much like the EuroDisney attractions she'd visited with Gordon.

But the girl was occupied with other matters. Squashing misery, TinTin extended a bit of thought, the merest wisp of presence, in her father's direction. Through the pulsing buzz of surrounding minds she sensed him, and drew near. Stiff and angry his thoughts seemed to her as Kyrano bustled away in the kitchen at one needless task after another. Gordon had a term for that sort of thing: _make-work._

TinTin bit her lip, clearly sensing her father's unease. She, a mere girl, burdened with a power she barely understood, had dared to defy his wishes. Knowing better, she'd gone haring off with Alan, Gordon and Fermat. She'd risked her own life, _his_ employment and International Rescue equipment on what Kyrano considered a fool's errand. And, for what? What, in the end, had they produced?

A lost ship, a world-wide systems crash, and a failed rescue. Small wonder that he'd grown angry with her! Fermat was the son of Dr. Hackenbacker; _his_ father's status in the organization was assured. Gordon and Alan were sons of Jeff Tracy, himself. Their antics might irritate the stern gentleman, but the boys would never truly suffer for it.

TinTin, on the other hand, was the cook's daughter. She lived in the mansion and attended school in Paris through Jeff Tracy's incredible generosity. It was a tremendous debt, and one that her proud father seemed to feel most keenly. As far as Kyrano was concerned, the girl could best repay her benefactor by remaining quiet, demure and obedient; never by putting herself forward or using her strange abilities. Most certainly, she was not to contemplate donning the haircut and uniform of a man and taking part in a mission… Yet, here she was and there he chose to remain, fussing over a colander of _haricots verts._

Saddened, TinTin withdrew her shadowy contact, leaving her father to his recipes, his spotless counter tops and his intolerance. She'd have to make her own way, with the help of a few trusted friends.

The group broke up, each to their separate missions, but the girl hung back to walk with Gordon. He was a good comrade and she loved him, though not in the manner he'd once wished. He offered her his arm as they proceeded down corridor, adding what little he knew of Siberia to her small store of knowledge. It was cold, basically, and very remote. TinTin listened (commenting and laughing at appropriate moments) but didn't truly hear, considering instead what it must be like to belong… not _to_ someone… but _with_ them.

She parted company with Gordon at the giant silver spear that was Thunderbird 1. He would sit up front, with Scott; she with Fermat and Alan in a cramped storage area, there to await drop-off.

"Take care, Angel," the swimmer told her (red-haired and muscular, not especially handsome, he was nevertheless very dear to her).

"…Mind you don't get trodden on."

Feeling a bit of her depression clear, TinTin laughed and kissed his cheek.

"I am certain, Mon Coeur, that I would hear any potential 'smashers' long before they came within treading range, but I shall be wary anyhow, because you have requested it."

His answering embrace was quick, rough and friendly, ending with an affectionate hair-muss. For just a moment, the girl relaxed her guard enough to 'burrow', allowing lines to blur and closer contact to smooth away doubt. Most of it, anyhow…

She'd begun having nightmares of late, teasing whispers hinting that her fullest power would only come with physical maturity, and its proving act. Perhaps the nightmare-whispers were nothing, the product of loneliness and confusion, but TinTin couldn't be sure. There was no one to ask.

She entered the rear compartment a few minutes later to find Fermat and Alan in agitated conversation. There were pull-down seats on all the bulkheads, so TinTin chose one between the Mobile Control crates that allowed her to face the two boys.

Alan gave the girl a brief nod as she strapped herself in.

"Back me up, T," he urged, casting wary glances at the cabin security camera. It did not appear to be on. "Here's the plan: Fermat doesn't think it'll work, but it's sure-fire, _trust _me. Okay, so we go to Siberia, shovel mammoth poop, or whatever, then get on back home. As soon as we can, we all four meet downstairs in Brains' lab… Fermat knows all the security codes… and then we fire up the time machine. We go all the way back to me hearing Matt's message, and try again. Only, this time, instead of hanging around till he wakes up, we bring him here while he's still out of it. No fuss, no bother. Final score: the ship is back, the brother's rescued, and _we're_ out of trouble. What d' you think? Go ahead and admit it, Doll: I'm a genius!"

He appeared so touchingly proud of himself, so eager, that TinTin couldn't find much to say besides,

"We must at least consult Virgil. On this point, I am firm. Perhaps even the father of Fermat…"

The younger boy's cue to wedge an opinion through all that self-congratulatory armor and he took it.

"Alan, three th- things: first, 'our' John n- needs help, too. Maybe we... sh- should be th- thinking about that, a little? S- second, I d- don't… think Dad's t- time machine is very… safe. And I don't b- believe that… the universe w- will allow you… t- to just go back and… change history like that."

Blinking rapidly behind thick glasses, Fermat clutched at his seat straps and nearby packing. Thunderbird 1 had come to life, beginning to growl and shake in preparation for launch. The boy raised his voice a bit, anxious to get his point across.

"Anyway, even s- sleeping, M- Matt would… be unable t- to cross over. H- He and… John are versions of th- the same… person. It's like the Pauli Exclusion… Principle: T- two particles w- with the… same spin c- can't… occupy the same space, n- nor two 'John Tracys' the same… universe."

Alan scowled. The rocket-plane's engine noise had risen to enraged, guttural thunder. Nevertheless, he made himself heard.

"Dude, all you got is logic! I've got _conviction._ The plan will work, I swear it will. Just give me a chance!"

Blast and vibration ended the argument, leaving everyone out of sorts. Critically, the conflict and badly stirred emotions distracted all three of them. No one consulted the maps or read their mission briefing. No one, when the time came, was ready.


	37. Chapter 37: Friends and Relations

Thanks, VS, ED, A5and Tikatu for the reviews. Replies and editsare forthcoming, honest.

**37: Friends and Relations**

_Endurance, the cargo bay-_

It all felt correct, just… troubling and contradictory. Too violently sick to make any judgment calls, John chose to ignore the extra memories, most of which involved familiar people and situations. That someone named 'Matt' had existed… had lived and died and handed on his store of experiences… seemed clear. But how and why someone else's life had ended up in his head, John was too busy deteriorating to find out.

All that he really wanted at that point was a little peace and quiet to do his dying in. Oblivion was a longed-for goal, because he felt utterly wretched when conscious. Cho wouldn't leave him alone, though. Irritating as hell, she kept coming at him with tamoxifen, iodine tablets, saline solution and vitamins. Waste of time. He'd have told her so, too, if he'd been able to summon the strength.

Still, she kept at it, sometimes with help from Thorpe _(traitor)_, making him drink or open his eyes, or take a deep breath from the mask. Eventually, she woke him entirely for anoral and intravenous dose ofsomething that tasted like soot and burned through his limbs like a ground-glass muck fire. More wasted effort, he'd have called it, except that her slow-motion, off-pitch voice got through with,

"…this Dr. Hackenbacker, whose acquaintance I really _must…_"

_'Ike…?'_ He said to himself, each thought as separate and distinct as a pebble dropped into a deep well, _'Damn. He's pulling ahead, again.'_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The rear cockpit-_

Cho exited the cargo bay, careful to strip down, change and have a long detox scrub before approaching Roger and Linda. They were waiting for her just outside the rear cockpit, nervous and quiet and crackling with stress.

Thorpe put a hand forth to help guide his exhausted fiancé. She rested against him for a moment, absorbing body heat and strength.

"Well…?" Linda finally prodded. It galled her, being forced to sit back during a medical crisis, but every time she'd gathered herself to enter the garage, fear for their baby stopped her short. How many physical insults could one tiny blob of tissue endure? She gave Cho an aspirin tablet and a water bottle, forcing herself to wait patiently for the exobiologist's report.

"I cannot yet say," Cho answered at last, having swallowed her pill. "The idea of carbon nano-tube 'cages' for toxic particles is certainly intriguing, and I was able to manufacture them according to Tracy Aerospace guidelines… but there is much cellular damage, and the cure may not have… Linda, forgive my rambling, please. I am terribly sorry."

This last, as Dr. Bennett covered her eyes with a shaking hand. Brushing off her crewmates' sympathy, Linda took a last, quick look at the two figures floating pale and still within the cargo bay, and then left.

Scooting along with kicks and rapid handholds, she reached the crew living quarters, and made her way to John's berth. The sleeping compartments were small, something of a cross between a bunk bed and one of those Japanese 'coffin hotels'. They were well padded, though, with nylon straps and a bag-like sleep restraint to prevent the astronaut occupant from drifting. A bit of homey shelving and a small corkboard occupied the forward wall. John's compartment was fairly stark, but it smelled of him faintly, and she could float there in curtained privacy beneath his reading lamp, wishing for sleep or tears. Neither would come.

Terrible thoughts, dry and clinical, filled her aching head. She knew precisely what the levels of radiation he'd absorbed were doing to his body, and to Pete's. And she couldn't shut the damn text book.

For distraction, stillclutching John's sleep restraint, she had another look around. The corkboard featured a family picture and an odd, framed check for $2.56. Also, a snap shot of some kind of big, black muscle car, and a laminated rosary card. He was an unusual man, her John Tracy.

His laptop (also black) was Velcroed to the book shelf, beside what appeared to be a leather-bound journal. Curious, she picked up the tethered diary and began flipping through it.

Inside… there were circuit diagrams, equations, long strings of rubbed-out and carefully corrected code, and many short paragraphs in varying languages. The days' events, maybe? No way to tell, really, as the only language she knew besides English was a little medical Latin.

But there were pictures, too; hand-drawn in precise, unsparing detail. One in particular caught her eye, for the mood and subject matter. Back on Mars, she'd once helped him to install and calibrate the observatory's big reflecting telescope. A difficult and tedious job, and she'd thought (because of his silence) that John was upset with their glacial progress. The picture argued otherwise.

He'd sketched her wrestling a heavy bolt into its threaded aperture, looking…

Did she really bite her lower lip like that, when totally focused?

There was a tumbled lock of hair falling into one eye, and her carefully rendered expression was pure drive and determination. Linda touched the picture, taking care not to smudge it. She hadn't known he could draw, or that he'd be motivated to represent his companions and experiences so _accurately._

Flipping further, she found other pictures, as well: _Endurance_ on the landing pad… Pete banging on a recalcitrant heating unit with a socket-wrench, tendons and blood vessels standing out all over his neck and forehead… Roger in the galley, preparing one of his ketchup-intensive, Marine Corps specials… Kim Cho's downcast eyes and private smile… and Linda herself, in many brief, telling scenes. (Didn't she ever smile?)

They were all there, interspersed with star maps and mathematical notation, bordered round with multi-lingual comments in two different hands. Looking at it all, Linda wondered if one of those statements contained news of their strange marriage. All at once, she wanted to add something; to speak with this very hidden side of her endangered husband. Hitching herself forward again, Linda pulled his pencil from its shelf loops and turned to the first free page. There, using half-recalled calligraphy, she wrote:

_John Tracy and Linda Bennett were married on Thursday, October 30th, 2066 by CDR David 'Pete' McCord. This union took place at 1700 hours, in the Argyre Basin of Mars, and was witnessed by Capt. Roger Thorpe and Doctor Kim Cho. _

She signed her name below this terribly dry statement, then drew signature lines for John, Cho, Pete and Roger. Someday soon, perhaps she'd be able to add a birth announcement.

When Linda finally went to sleep, it was with the journal tucked inside her tee-shirt, as well defended as Junior.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The cargo bay-_

Time passed, and Hackenbacker's nano-trap 'medication' began to take effect. A mixed blessing, this, as it put the engineer one-up in their friendly competition. And they _did_ compete. Whether in scientific papers, 3-D sudoku puzzles, computer programming or artificial intelligence, John Tracy and 'Hiram Hackenbacker' crossed swords (and kept score) continuously.

The coveted home-run was a rescue, though, and John had been several points ahead until his disastrous illness. No longer.

On the bright side, Pete was recovering, and it seemed likely that Brains would screw _something _up in the near future and require a timely assist… he nearly always did. Not that Ike was sloppy, exactly; just impatient. He tended to rush his ideas right off the drawing board and into the field, proof-of-concept be damned. Something would come up, guaranteed.

On the first day that he felt well enough to move around a little, John untethered himself and paid a 'bed-side' visit to the ailing mission commander. It was good to see him, again; pale, sunken and weak, but still alive.

"Tracy… Got any water?" Pete asked him, in a voice that evoked sandpaper, soda crackers and kindling.

"Yeah. Two seconds."

He could have used a drink himself, although just then John was inclined more toward Coors than flat, iodine-laced water. Oh well… later, maybe.

Cho had left a row of plastic bottles Velcro-ed to the inner bulkhead. John pushed off of Pete's restraint straps and fetched back the nearest recycled beverage. As the mission commander downed a few painful swallows, a sudden thought occurred.

"Pete," the pilot asked, "when did you become a man of the cloth?"

And, more importantly, _why?_ The foul-mouthed, hard-drinking and fast living veteran astronaut hardly seemed like A-list priestly material, even for the… um… '_Church of Universal Light'._

McCord gave him a quick, rather lop-sided grin.

"In my Navy test pilot days," he responded, closing his eyes but still smiling. "Filled out an internet form… for tax reasons."

His eyes (less bloodied, now) flew open again as the commander added,

"Plus, it impresses the hell out of the ladies. For awhile, there, I could have used one of those damn _'please take a number'_ dispensers: _'Now serving 5, 253…'_ Nothing like pilot's wings, astronaut training and a calling to the priesthood to guarantee hot-and-cold-running females. I'll give you the website…."

And then he was asleep, again. John used a napkin to catch the swarm of water blobs that had escaped confinement tohover besidePete's head. He stayed quietly by until Cho arrived, over an hour later. The news was not good


	38. Chapter 38: Bait

There will be a brief delay.

**38: Bait**

_Northern Siberia, on the ice-locked steppes and willow savanna of the Sakha region-_

Thunderbird 1 touched down just long enough for Scott to hail park headquarters and drop off his snow-suited passengers. Trusting that they'd studied their mission briefings, he called back…

_"Stay alert out there and keep in close touch with base,"_

…before opening the outer hatch. The storage area had no windows, so TinTin's first glimpse of frigid Siberia came through a swirling cloud of churned-up snow and rocket fumes. First impressions included lung-stabbing cold, weak sunshine, low hills and a great, wide sky.

Two figures burst from a nearby building as TinTin inched her way down Thunderbird 1's loading ramp. Scientists, as it turned out; one talking with Scott over a hand-held comm unit, the other waving.

While the boys unloaded a pair of sleek hover sleds, TinTin shook mittened hands with the nearest man, a bespectacled fellow whose graying beard blended into the fur of his parka.

"Doctor Larry Aginbroad," he introduced himself, having to shout over 1's caterwauling engines. "This is my colleague, Sergei Andropov, chief zoologist. We're glad you could make it!"

"I am very pleased to meet you, Sirs," TinTin shouted back, her breath forming misty plumes. "How may we be of assistance?"

The other scientist was taller, with a red face mostly hidden by snow goggles and a heavy blond mustache. If either of them questioned the obvious youth of International Rescue's field agents, they kept the matter to themselves.

"Moscow's dispatched a couple of heli-jets and an army unit," Dr. Aginbroad told her, stepping aside with TinTin as the first hover sled shot down the loading ramp. He trailed off, amazed, watching Alan gun the sled into a sharp, snow-scattering bank and cut back around, again. The vast steppe echoed with the boy's whoops, shaking snow from several innocentroof tops. The next sled came down with Fermat at the helm, far more sedately.

"Uh… what was I…? Oh, yes: heli-jets. The Russian army has mobilized a unit to contain the situation, Miss, but in the meantime we could use some help reaching a couple of tour buses mired in the north pasture. The drivers lost control when their guidance systems cut out, broke through the ice and wound up sunk to their axels in lake mud. So far, the passengers are remaining calm, but it's getting colder, and a speedy extraction seems advisable."

Added Andropov in excellent, if accented, English,

"The accident site is difficult to reach, with many frightened animals ranging about. Our fences and heating units have failed, confusing the poor creatures. Perhaps… once the 'paying guests' have been safely retrieved… you might assist us with rescuing our animals? The army seems likely to shoot, rather than coax."

He leaked genuine anxiety for the beasts' welfare, and TinTin found herself nodding.

"I am certain that something can be done to help your charges, Messieurs. Is there, perhaps, a park schematic that I might download to the comms?"

Andropov nodded (Dr. Aginbroad had moved off to examine Alan's motorcycle-like hover sled. He seemed very impressed.)

"Inside the main building, Miss," said the Russian zoologist, indicating a squat, rectangular structure of native stone. There were other buildings as well, dorms or guest houses, possibly. Eager to escape the wind's straight-razor bite (and to allow Thunderbird 1 room to take off, again) TinTin followed him inside, stomping snow from her boots.

The interior was a peculiar mix of science outpost and tourist trap, with local crafts and stuffed animals for sale next to scholarly works of paleontology. Somehow, given the name, she'd expected something… 'slicker'. More commercial. Apparently, distance and evil weather had kept the operation marginal.

An elderly woman stood behind the glass sales counter. Her name tag read 'Anya', and her broad, wrinkled face creased itself into a pleased smile when TinTin drifted up to examine the displayed wares. There were hats there, knit from dense, plushy-looking brown fur. Mammoth hair, perhaps? Enjoying the soft, clucking warmth of the woman's emotions, TinTin pointed to an embroidered hat and asked,

"How much, Madame, if you please?"

As Dr. Aginbroad and the boys blew through the doors in a swirl of dense cold and loud voices, Anya pulled out a multi-lingual price list. Five-hundred-fifty standard dollars. Not _too_ exorbitant, really, so TinTin pulled off her left glove and allowed her ID chip to be scanned. She could always borrow pocket money from Gordon, after all…

"The other guests and most of our staff have already been bussed back to town," Dr. Aginbroad was saying. "Seemed like the smart thing to do. Expensive, though."

Outside, Thunderbird 1 lifted away, her noise and vibration causing computer screens to flicker and small items to be knocked from their shelves. TinTin caught a stuffed woolly rhinoceros before it hit the floor, and ended up purchasing that, as well. Anya offered her a plate of ginger cookies and steaming hot tea, which the girl accepted with thanks before rejoining the strategy session. Wonderful folk, Russians.

"…So if you like, we can split up," Andropov was saying, while the lot of them pored over a map of the park. "Dr. Aginbroad can ride with one of you gentlemen, while I take the snowmobile and scout the location of our herd. You will need to be cautious. Besides _M. Meridionalis_, Pleistocene Park houses quite a number of rhinos, aurochs and cave lions."

Dr. Aginbroad winced, rubbing at his right arm in gloomy reminiscence.

"Dire wolves, too," he cut in. "Pain in the neck, but investors and tourists _love _a flashypredator."

Alan snorted.

"Predators better watch out for _me_," he said.

Fermat heaved a quiet sigh, but held his peace. After all, Alan was technically in charge…

The rescue teams fell out this way: Dr. Aginbroad took the first sled with Fermat, to help dig out and unload the furthest tour bus (halfway along Lake Svetlana, in the north pasture). Alan mounted up on the second sled with TinTin. They'd free the nearer, more deeply mired bus. Once the promised heli-jets arrived, two busloads of nervous tourists could be airlifted back to safety in Moscow; mission accomplished.

TinTin quietly vowed to do better at this rescue than she had with the last. For the struggling park's sake, for old Anya and two devoted scientists, everything must be handled as smoothly as Scott or Virgil would have managed it, if not more so.

Bundled up once again, the girl followed the others outside. Dr. Andropov had provided a pair of snow goggles, and she wore her new hat. And, _Lord,_ but it was cold! The feeble sunlight did nothing at all to warm her instantly chilled body.

Seated behind Alan, TinTin wrapped her arms around his waist (and his resultant wild thrill made her blush). The silver-blue sled whirred to life at a button press, then lifted itself on a cushion of anti-gravity, about three feet into the air. Below it, hard-packed snow creaked and groaned.

"Ready, Babe?" Alan called back, over the sibilant wind and humming engine. TinTin nodded.

"Oui. As your brother would say, 'fire away'."

The sled shot forward in Fermat's wake, nearly dumping TinTin in the process. She tightened her grip on Alan as they cut around Thunderbird 1's burnt and muddied track. Stinging bits of ice and gashing wind sought her exposed face, but TinTin was too fascinated to duck away.

Weaving among silvery lakes and bare willows, they passed herds of fuzzy horses and grunting musk oxen. The former bolted, but the latter formed tight circles, snorting and tossing their heavy-horned heads. Obviously, a gate had come down, somewhere. Very earnestly, TinTin looked about for lions and wolves, but only once spied a pair of slinking shadows, dark and swift against glittering drifts.

Most of the park's denizens got out of their way, even the stately aurochs leaping well clear of the sleds' hissing path. Not all, though. One ill-tempered, half-blind rhinoceros exploded out of the willows like a hairy boulder. Surprisingly fast for its size, the massive beast actually bumped their sled, its three feet of flattened horn tipping the back end. TinTin caught a vivid impression of rank geyser breath and mean little eyes. And then, _Dieu merci, _they were away. She had a pistol, as did Alan, but was loath to turn it upon cloned prehistoric animals. They'd already gone extinct once. TinTin had no desire to initiate a second tragic die-off.

The rhinoceros fell back, satisfied that it had won the encounter, and returned to its dim browsing. By this time, Fermat's sled was out of sight. Somewhere amid rapidly icing lakes and stands of dense larch, they'd lost each other. The sleds and wrist comms had a tracking feature, though, so no one really worried. Alan simply followed his downloaded map, thinking more (and more loudly) about his plans for the time machine than their current situation. After all, how hard could it be to un-stick a bus?

Calamitousthunder and stench announced the mammoths. A small herd came rushing out of the hills, shaking their domed heads and trumpeting. Rather than waste time going around the giant animals, Alan decided to weave his way through the herd. TinTin didn't grasp his intent until they were dashing amid mountain-sized flanks and forests of curved ivory. Unlike the rhinoceros, these creatures were fairly intelligent, and frightened. Several of them were bleeding, leaving dark, wet splotches in the high-piled snow. Uttering hoarse screams, they lashed at the speeding sled with sideways jabs of their great tusks, eyes rolling white and trunks flailing.Tall gouts of snow were thrown up with each smash of a pile-driver leg. The ground shook.

At this point, Alan realized that he'd made a serious mistake. He cut west, trying to swerve away, but wouldn't have made it without TinTin. As an enraged bull charged their careening sled, she put forth everything she possessed in a single, reverberating thought: **_NO!_**

The enormous animal stumbled; huffing clouds of bloodied steam, it shook its head, lifted a hairy trunk and bellowed. Thunderbird 1 might have been louder, but TinTin wouldn't have bet on it. All but deafened, they zipped away from the milling herd, Alan gone suddenly wide-eyed and shaking. Very wisely, TinTin resisted the urge to comment. She wondered, though, who had injured the huge mammoth, and why? Had someone panicked? And Dr. Andropov... he'd been tracking the herd... Where had he gone?


	39. Chapter 39: Strike

**39: Strike**

_Pleistocene Park, Siberia-_

"Thanks…" he said, "for yelling at Jumbo, back there."

Alan had calmed himself and regained control of the hover sled. Although shaken, the boy was attempting to appear nonchalant (for her sake, TinTin suspected).

Using her wrist comm, she took her eyes from their path for a queasy instant and called Fermat.

"Everyone okay back there, TinTin?" Came the younger boy's voice, along with a jumbled, streaming image of snow and rock. Quite wisely, Fermat was attending first to his driving.

"Yes, I suppose. It is just that we, er… encountered a mammoth herd, and several of them appeared injured. And I wished to know if you have perhaps heard from Monsieur Andropov?"

There was a short mumble of off-comm conversation, then,

"Okay, hang on, TinTin… Dr. Aginbroad is trying his radio… And here's the bus. We'll get back to you."

A burst of static followed. TinTin grew more uneasy, which caused two further things to happen; her mental shields grew stronger, abruptly cutting her vulnerable mind away from its dangerous surroundings, and her arms tightened about Alan's waist.

The first consequence 'blinded' her, but Alan was pretty pleased with the second. No matter what else was going on, he finally seemed to be making progress with TinTin.

Leaning into a wild turn, he cut around a stand of pitifully nude willows, then killed the engine. His hover sled lost altitude but not momentum, gliding forward to half-bury itself in a snow bank. They'd found the zoologist. TinTin was off the sled before it hit the ground, floundering through high drifts toward an up-ended snow mobile and a dark, crumpled figure.

All at once, Alan was all business. Placing a hand on his holstered pistol (which he'd never yet had to fire) the teenaged boy wriggled off the sled and threw his parka hood back for a better look around. He saw nothing but snow, a vault of pure sky, a low sun and whisper-bare trees casting long, blue shadows.

A few dark birds had gathered in the willow branches to shift and croak and watch. Others flapped up, like gawking spectators at a car wreck.

Cautiously, he made his way over to the girl, trying to see everything at once, and jumpy as a fawn on a windy day.

"Mr. Andropov…?" he asked, after clearing his throat.

TinTin nodded, looking much as she had beside the bulkhead, that time on Matt's station. There, she'd had some kind of weird fit. Here, she crouched beside the still form of a man they'd been talking to less than two hours before.

Andropov lay abandoned in the snow, with his head oddly twisted, about five feet from the crashed snowmobile. An accident, maybe, except that there were booted footprints nearby. Pretty deep, they turned north, then disappeared in a patch of rock and recently melted snow. Lots of scrubby trees and blowing snow to hide in… Worried, Alan felt the snowmobile's hood. Still warm, and no sign at all of what made it flip, like that.

"T…?" he ventured, reaching down to haul the girl to her feet. He didn't want to panic her, or anything, but… "Something's up. I'm gonna call in for help, and then we'd better find that bus, quick."

TinTin nodded slowly, looking somehow distant and numb… like it didn't much matter what happened next. But, she took stuff pretty hard, on account of being a chick, and all. Patting her arm, he tried raising Scott. Nothing. Bad comm, or really busy; your choice. He did reach Virgil, who seemed to be coughing up a lung, or something. Next trying Hackenbacker, he wound up on _hold. _Great. Take a number, huh?

Back at the island base, his father took news of the 'accident' and whacked-out mammoths with a grim nod.

"I agree that it looks suspicious, Son." Jeff told him, "and I'll send one of your brothers as quickly as possible. In the meantime, be _careful._ Get those people out, and join them on the flight to Moscow if one of us doesn't get there first. It may be awhile. Scott's encountered trouble, as well."

His father looked really, _really_ tired. But he was old, and wasn't getting much rest, lately.

"I'll be in touch, Son. You three proceed with caution, and if the situation sours, don't wait for my word, _fall back._ Understood?"

Alan nodded. His father tended to throw around that 'military speak' whenever he got stressed. That, and astronaut talk.

"It's handled, Dad," he boasted, more to make the old man feel better than because he really believed it. "Trust me."

Then he smiled and signed off, out in a big empty steppe with a shocked girl and a dead guy, feeling small and alone.

TinTin had found a red drop cloth in the sled's saddlebag storage compartment. She placed this over Andropov's body and weighted it down with stones and broken branches. Then she said a quiet Catholic prayer. Alan didn't get into that stuff… a guy had to stand on his own two feet, y' know… but he didn't interrupt, either. Obviously, it meant something to _her._

"C'mon, T," he said, when she'd finished. "We got to find that bus. I'll call Fermat and tell the other guy what happened, if you can't."

She nodded silently, still pretty out of it. Still _pretty,_ period. Even with her eyes red and her nose swelling up, she looked like something out of the anime movies, or a magazine. Then it happened again, that weirdness of hers. All at once, TinTin stared at the dark birds in the willow trees, and they all just _left._ In a croaking cloud, losing feathers and droppings in their haste to get away, the scavengers took flight. _Spooky._

Keeping his mouth shut, Alan dug the sled free, and then got her back aboard. Next, he made that call, which was sort of hard. Aginbroad looked as stunned as TinTin had, but Alan didn't know what to say besides…

"I'm sorry, Sir. I'll help you get him back home, when we're done with the buses, I promise."

…And like that. He was deeply relieved when the call ended, and he could get back to dealing with _live_ people… situations he could actually help out with. This kind of thing wasn't covered in simulation.

He got the sled up and going again, letting speed and power and screaming wind chase away some of the stuff he didn't want to feel. Maybe later he and Gordon could hang out for awhile, talk things over. You know… guy stuff.

And he fixated harder than ever on saving Matt, who he just couldn't visualize as lost. Not a possibility; not when Alan had smart friends, high-tech gear and a plan.

Just like before, he did more zipping and banking than absolutely necessary, because speed (and a girl's tight hug) felt good. You couldn't drive forever, though. Sooner or later, the ride was over. You reached the bus, and sprang the trap.


	40. Chapter 40: Stage One

First draft, edits to come...

**40: Stage One**

_Pleistocene Park, Siberia-_

Alan hadn't followed the park's circular main road; too far. Instead, he'd used his downloaded map and the bus's heat signature to plot a swift short cut. Not that there weren't issues. They'd lost Fermat, for one, run into a spooked mammoth herd and stopped at an accident site, for another.

Then there was the heavy stock fence, which his sled didn't have power enough to top. He wasted almost ten minutes looking for a gate, all the while having the neck-prickling, creepy feeling that he and TinTin were being watched. _Lions, maybe?_

But all he saw was deep snow and narrow lakes; all he heard was hissing, face-numbing wind. The hills, furred almost black with huddled larch trees, were rising in the north like storm clouds by the time he encountered the bus. Its green paint, tinted windows and stylized mammoth logo stood out like fireworks against all that trampled mud and brittle snow. With its heating unit down, Lake Svetlana had begun to freeze, its edges icing over and wisps of vapor dancing over a dark, rippled surface. The other shore was invisible, the near one scored with half-filled tire ruts and foot prints.

Alan's stiffening face managed a brief scowl. No-one was standing around trying to pull the bus free. And Dr. Aginbroad had said it was mired… not tipped into the lake with its rear canted up, sinking.

He was off the hover sled before it stopped moving. Meant for quick transport, it wasn't powerful enough to haul a loaded tour bus out of thick mud. He'd have to get everyone off… but why weren't they out, already?

Forgetting cold and exhaustion, forgetting TinTin, even, Alan lunged for the back of the bus. Trying to run, he broke through the snow's brittle crust to flounder waist deep, fighting his way clear only to crash through again.

'_Should've brought the sled closer in…'_

Dripping sweat and gasping for air, he reached the rear emergency exit a few minutes later. Removing his mittens, Alan seized a lever-like door handle and clambered onto the rear bumper.

_(Easy; his many previous schools had practiced bus evacuation procedures until the teenager was ready to vomit. He could have done this asleep.)_

The left window had a hole in it, he saw, about the size of a thrown soda can. The bus jerked forward a little, slipping further into the lake. What was wrong with those people? Were they all, like, sleeping in there? With no time for a long chat, he flattened his wrist comm's alarm button. Didn't care _who_ responded. Every and anyone, come a-running…

He then braced himself, got a firm handhold, and jerked open the emergency door. It creaked wide, thumping against the back end and emitting a sudden mist of noxious air. _Smelled weird in there._

The bus was now tilted about 20 degrees, with lots of steam and bubbling noises from up front, where icy water was drowning the engine.

"TinTin!" he shouted, before heading inside, "I don't think they can get out by themselves! We're gonna need rope!"

The girl had been picking her way toward him, using the trail he'd battered out. Slowly, she turned away, moving like a drugged zombie. _Really _hoping that Fermat and the zoo guy showed up soon, Alan plunged into the sinking bus.

Immediately, he started coughing. Dizzying fumes clouded the air, half-revealing the slumped forms of fifteen or twenty people.

'_No wonder… not out…'_ Alan thought blurrily _'…_ _gas.'_

Still coughing, he dropped his parka hood and reached inside the jacket, yanking his tee-shirt up to cover mouth and nose. Helped, a little.

Up front, the driver was nearly submerged in grey, freezing muck. Alan stumbled forward, tripping over camera bags and fallen kids. As he fumbled an unconscious toddler back onto her seat, some kind of can bounced away, sputtering like a cartoon bomb. Gas grenade, if his Navy Seal video games were accurate. It rolled down the aisle, doused at last by rising water. This was getting ugly.

Alan jumped when a dark silhouette blocked the light from the open emergency door, but it was only TinTin. Holding to seat backs and overhead rails, she'd begun easing her way toward him, a coil of rope over one arm. She, too, was coughing, sounding as bad as Virgil had.

They _had_ to get these people out, but Alan was sure that they, and the other teams, had been set up. That they'd stumbled into a quickly settrap. One more time, he mashed his alarm, hoping for some kind of response.

The bus lurched forward again, creaking like a backyard swing on a windy night. Alan braced himself, boots firmly planted on the ridged floor mat. His head hurt. He could've used _anyone's_ help just then; Gordon, Scott… heck, even John _(who would've said something sarcastic and obvious like, "Why don't you… I don't know… open the windows, or something? They'll begin coming around once the air clears, Genius.")_

Alan nodded. Wading forward, he reached an arm out to grab hold of the driver's sodden brown uniform. Like his passengers, the manappeared unconscious and hypothermic.

"T!" Alan croaked, "Get those windows open, Babe. We gotta… gotta let the… gas out."

"Oui," she replied, faint as a dying breeze.

Alan hooked an arm around the vertical steel pole beside the driver's seat. He got a firm grip on the guy, who looked pretty solid… fifty years old, maybe… and then started pulling him out of the frigid mud. It didn't seem to want to let go, but neither did Alan.

He'd heard something, once, in English class. Some dead writing guy had said,

'_A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is brave five minutes longer.'_

So, here went the five minutes. He shifted his grip and pulled even harder, getting (as Gordon would say) his back into it. Alan's legs were numb and his fingers were blue. His boots slipped a little, but he regained his footing, leaned back and tried again.

TinTin was nearly there, carrying one end of the rope. She'd lowered several windows, and a sharp wind now snarled and rattled through the bus's interior, smelling of musky animals and glottal mud.

Alan twisted himself and grunted, pulling the driver free, then swinging him around to the back side of a steel barrier separating 'cockpit' from passenger compartment.

'_Yeah! Thought so!'_ Looking up, half leaning against the slimed barrier, Alan reached for TinTin's proffered rope. His wrist comm beeped; island base, looked like. Maybe, after all…

There was sudden, loud noise: crashing, shattering glass from the window beside him. Afist shot through, seized the neck of his parka, and jerked it back with the force of a jackhammer. His head smashed against broken glass and metal window frame, two… three times…

The first time hurt. The second was all red lights and TinTin screaming. He didn't feel the third time.

Alan's unconscious form collapsed atop the driver's. Then something ripped out half of a body panel, and leapt within, landing in a booming, cat-like crouch.

TinTin had drawn her pistol, but the muzzle wavered and jumped, unable to settle on the thing that rose to stand before her, burning with the cold blood-lust of a predator. A man in form, but in mind jagged-edged and dripping.

She tried to stop him with a thrust of thought, but he blocked her, his electronic enhancements knifing past faltering shields and numbed will.

TinTin brought the pistol up, bracing it with two hands, elbows locked, as Gordon had taught her. The killer simply placed a booted foot across Alan's throat. A moment's concentration, a bit of pressure, and he'd crush the boy's windpipe like wet cardboard.

TinTin stifled a whimper as the man… Stirling… held out his hand. The deal was obvious; hand over the weapon, or watch her friend and comrade die.

_(It was not a person. Not anymore. The terrible deaths and choked pleas she tried so hard to twist away from were like being beaten and torn, herself. And they spoke of how horribly it had altered itself.)_

Shaking, she gave him the gun, and he smiled. Pale, circuit-enhanced eyes and perfect ceramic teeth made the expression very muchother than human. Disdaining cold, he wore only a smart-cloth body suit. It shifted continuously as he moved, matching the seats, the mud and the spattered metal behind him.

"Scared… aren't you," he said conversationally, taking his foot off of Alan. Her pistol he unloaded, then crushed and tossed aside.

Despite herself, the girl nodded. In her mind, he glowed blackly; a gloating, cold, hungry thing… rubbing itself in her fear.

Stirling chuckled, indicating the slumped and comatose tourists.

"So were they, before the gas set in. Everyone is, at the end. But don't fret, Beautiful. It's nothing personal… and just for you, this once I'll make it quick."

TinTin forced herself to concentrate.

"Why? Wh… Who sent you?" she whispered.

But Stirling merely shook his head.

"Client confidentiality," he reproved. "Big job, nice profit, lots of scenery... as long as I keep my mouth shut… And see to it that you do the same. Nice knowing you, Beautiful."

And then he stepped forward.


	41. Chapter 41: Blessed Event

Edited!

**41: Blessed Event**

_Thunderbird 1, earlier-_

When at last the hover-sleds were unloaded and kids and scientists safe within park headquarters, Scott lifted off; already behind schedule. He used the silver Bird's impellers more than her volcanically powerful engines, not wishing to wake the echoes nor bring down a cold-stressed building. In full burn, Thunderbird 1 was _that_ loud.

Inside the cramped cockpit, with his brother, Gordon, seated uncomfortably sideways, Scott Tracy manipulated thrust and anti-gravity like the artist he was. Thunderbird 1 surged free of the snowy morass with a muted, growling rumble.

_'Better',_ Scott decided, though not yet good enough for the sensitive conditions on Everest. He was going to have to learn to bring her in like a skimming leaf… or risk burying the accident victims alive, like his mother had been.

Everyone had their own way of dealing with loss; John's was to close himself off, obsessing about whatever he felt could still be saved. Virgil tended to withdraw into painting and music, sometimes playing Beethoven and Debussy far into the tropical night. Scott simply worked harder… planned better, his mantra being: _'Never again. Not on my watch'_.

Now, as snow and mud and buildings fell dizzyingly away beneath him, Scott Tracy sent a last, brief message to the kids, then turned his head to stare at Gordon.

"Okay, they're gone, now. So tell me: what's the big secret? What's Alan up to?"

Very much caught by surprise, Gordon hesitated. He wasn't quick on the draw with excuses. In the few minutes afforded by Scott's mid-flight course correction, the best he came up with was,

"Well, that is t' say… there's no _secret, _as such. He's hardly, er…"

_"Gordon,"_ Scott cut his brother off, a harder than normal gleam in his blue-violet eyes. "I'm not stupid. He tried to tell you something back at the hangar, and he made _damn_ sure the security monitors were off in the storage compartment. Asked me _twice._ Now, quit stalling, and answer the question: what's he planning?"

Gordon ran a hand through his sun- and chlorine-bleached hair. Not just worried, he looked deeply uneasy.

"He's, um… _concerned, _he is. About Matt."

Now, they were getting somewhere.

"Okay. So, let's start with 'Matt', then. Who is he? What the hell happened with this guy that has Alan so agitated?"

Gordon fidgeted. The second seat that Brains had installed in Thunderbird 1's cockpit wasn't very comfortable, and neither was the situation. He disliked turning on Alan, but rather hoped that _someone_ would step in. Slowly, then, with many asides and restarts, he began telling story and plan, as he understood them. Scott listened quietly, forgetting to call in, or check the other teams' status. In the end, after an instant or two of grim silence, he shook his head, saying,

"No. _Hell _no. I'm sorry for Matt, and for what Alan's going through because of him, but we've got to protect our own world. If that thing… that alien… is as dangerous as you say it is, then you four were damn lucky to get out alive, much less with any kind of successful rescue."

Again, the fighter pilot shook his head.

"Having another shot at the thing might give it an opening. _No._ In fact, I'll unplug the damn time machine, myself. God Almighty! How stupid _is_ that kid?"

Gordon was saved from having to respond by an unexpected call. Scott's private phone went off with a brief, stirring version of the 'Air Force Hymn'. It turned out to be Cindy Taylor, Scott's fiancée. His older brother turned the volume down and shifted position somewhat, but with nothing else to do (he'd read and re-read the mission briefing, and was now a sort of 'armchair expert' on Everest) Gordon saw and heard a great deal.

Her image flashed onto the little screen, looking as sleekly polished and 'done up' as though she'd just ended a broadcast.

"Hey there, Hollywood. Okay to talk?"

_('Hollywood?'_ It was rather amusing, watching his older brother fight to remain cool.)

"Yeah. Line's secure, Hon. What's on your mind?"

She sighed.

"About a thousand gallons of caffeine and severe jet lag… also a problem for you guys, or maybe just a quiet heads-up."

Scott's expression changed, going from _'dog-waiting-for-you-to-throw-the-ball'_ eager, to sudden apprehension.

"I'm listening. What's going on?"

She fussed impatiently with her dark hair, but the rigid strands wouldn't move. Evidently, they'd been seriously wind-proofed. Gordon did not approve.

"Okay," she began, "I've been in touch with one of my sources in congress, an intern at the senate… cousin of a sorority sister… and she says that one of the Texans, Senator Stennis, is stirring things up against WorldGov and Tracy Aerospace, both. He's slinging some pretty hard accusations, apparently… talking collusion, and such. I've met him a couple of times before, Scott. Seemed like a harmless crank, at first… one of those 'back to nature' freaks… but, lately, he's gotten (forgive my vague word choice) _creepy._ Like he's seeing right past you and into political Valhalla. Just… watch him, okay? I hate to resort to women's intuition here, Hollywood, but the guy's no good. I _know_ it. In fact, let me do a little digging, and I'll damn well prove it."

"Stennis, huh?" Scott mused, fiddling with one of the comm screens. "Gotcha. He skips right to the head of the surveillance list, then. I'll inform John as soon as I can. Who, by the way," he turned to the phone screen, again, trying to seem casual, "You haven't heard anything fr… _about_, have you?"

"Are you kidding?" Cindy snorted. "The big, unprintablenews around JSC right now is that the mission's coming in early, and your dear brother's about to become a father. Went and knocked up a crewmate."

Scott's jaw dropped. Just behind him, Gordon executed a fast, exuberant downward pulling motion with one clenched fist, mouthing, _'Score!'_

The pilot finally got his mouth shut and his brain unfrozen.

_"John…?_ A _father?_ There's a recipe for disaster! My brother can't even take care of himself without an itemized checklist, much less a baby… Wow."

Then, as though still testing this peculiar notion,

"Who's the mother? That oriental girl? The biologist? She's not too bad looking."

But Cindy shook her head, no.

"Believe it or not, the doctor."

Scott frowned, trying to visualize his possible sister-in-law. Short, brown-haired and snappish, was all he could come up with, despite several astronaut family get-togethers. On Scott's 'female radar', the doctor had barely registered. Hard to believe that she'd made any kind of a blip on John's.

"Oh, well… to each his own, I guess. He's going to catch major shit for this, though, believe me. Can't wait till he gets back. Heh! Got fruitful and multiplied…"

Scott was in a fine mood when they roared across theTibetan border, Gordon even more so. A _baby_ in the family… Fancy that.


	42. Chapter 42: Fireflash

**Chapter 42: Fireflash**

_Chinese Airspace, approaching Tibet-_

Most aircraft aloft that day survived the sudden loss of Braman. Fireflash flight 211 did not. The high-altitude light commuter shuttle had set off under ordinary enough conditions. She carried fifteen sleepy salarymen and office girls from one sprawling mega-city to another, with an experienced flight crew of three. Eighteen people, altogether.

Flight 211 departed Peking, China at 5:30 AM local time. With an average cruising speed of 2500 knots and a flight path that cleared most of Earth's atmosphere, 211 should have arrived at New Delhi's Gandhi International in little more than an hour. It was partial space flight, but so comfortably routine, by now, as to be almost boring.

Captain Walter Petty was the pilot. Early in the flight, he switched to left autopilot while First Officer Jae Benning went aft to visit the head. Stewardess Angel Martinez was making her rounds, handing out magazines and plastic cups of strong tea. She smiled a lot, but most of the plane's passengers were too bleary to notice. Early flights were often like that. Later, on the tourist routes, things would liven up a bit.

Up in the cockpit, a relatively relaxed Captain Petty went over the day's 12 hour schedule, subconsciously feeling the plane's transition from flight to programmed parabolic drift. Control surfaces hummed and altered. Wings folded into their compact delta configuration. Stars and darkness filled the view screen, marking Flight 211's passage into the ionosphere. There would next come a moment of stomach-fluttering weightlessness, during which drinks must be lidded and items secured. Smiling, he triggered the _'Fasten Seat Belt' _sign, repeating the command aloud for good measure.

At the appointed moment, the jets cut off, replaced by a short thruster burst. Attuned to his plane, the captain listened for the jets' ghostly, fading scream, at length experiencing smooth silence followed by a shuddering rumble and sudden acceleration. Again, perfectly routine. The joke among engineers, in fact, was that the computerized Fireflash A-500 could just about fly itself… though her pilots knew better.

When things began to go wrong, it was dead sudden and bewilderingly total. Jae (a solid woman in her mid-forties) had just started forward when Braman went down. Power failed all over the plane, killing cabin lights and heating, and plunging the flight deck into tomb-like blindness. Worse, towers and nav beacons shorted out world-wide, leaving 211, and thousands of similar flights, without guidance.

Jae hauled herself along, nearly colliding with Angel. The petite stewardess took advantage of micro-gravity to swing herself out of the way and then snapped an emergency glow stick, flooding the cabin with soft green light. In a calm, soothing voice the young woman reassured her confused charges.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, please tighten your restraints and remain in your seats. Power will be restored shortly. In the meantime, please refrain from smoking, or using personal electronic devices, and listen for further instructions."

Well accustomed to the occasional glitch, most of the business-class passengers stowed their darkened laptops and tautened their restraints. A few even joked a bit, though rather uneasily.

Up on the flight deck, Jae shut the cabin door, then returned to her seat, frowning worriedly. A glance at the instrument panel showed that they'd lost information on all six electronic displays. Total cockpit power-down,possibly caused by an operating system live-lock. She'd heard of such things, and dreaded them.

Wielding a flashlight, Captain Petty flipped three switches in rapid succession, cycling the circuit breakers, or trying to. He gave Jae a distracted nod as she attempted to raise the comm and declare an in-flight emergency.

"Dammit," he muttered, when nothing happened. With instrumentation and avionics out, the controls were locked. He tried again, auburn brows nearly meeting above the bridge of his aquiline nose.

"Second attempt, cycling breakers," he said, over the first officer's crisp, unheeded mayday. This time, it worked. Announced by blaring alarms and warning lights, power returned.

Unable to sort commands, the computerized auto-throttle initiated a horrific cascade of thruster firings. Flight 211 rolled violently to starboard, completing a full 360 degrees in noisy, rumbling seconds. Crew and passengers were hurled against their straps. Unsecured items shot through the air like shrapnel.

Petty heard screams from the cabin, then Angel's raised, authoritative voice. They were terrified back there, but calming panic was her job; flying the plane was his, and Jae Benning's.

He transferred autopilot to the right seat, letting the First Officer shut it down while he struggled to regain control of the plane. Fireflash began to pitch, all at once dropping 60 degrees nose down and diving for the distant Tibetan Plateau. She spun, as well, still trapped inhigh-altitude configuration.

There was a brief, staticky contact from the Peking tower,

_"Fireflash Flight 211, understand you are declaring emer…"_

…then power went down, yet again. Stuck in a dive, they had nothing; no traffic alerts or ground proximity warning, no weather radar and, as they plunged into the heavy clouds over Tibet, zero visibility.

Throat tightening, Jae continued to struggle with the right yoke, as Petty did what he could on the left. But it was hard; the controls were sluggish and the plane unwilling, her jets cold and silent. Buffeting winds and groaning metal were an unwelcome exchange for engine noise.

"Angel, have the passengers assume crash positions," Petty shouted over one shoulder. Without main instrumentation and GPS, he had only the plane's standby altimeter, airspeed indicator and artificial horizon to work with… and no way to tell how far they'd drifted from the planned flight corridor.

The plane dropped well below 28,000 feet before her Captain and First Officer were able to pull out of the dive and ignite her jet engines. As they coughed to life again, Petty gasped,

"Altitude 27,528 feet and climbing… air speed 1200 knots… heading 175 degrees south- south east…"

They were too low, moving too fast, and he knew it. Surrounded by milky-pearl snow clouds, aware that the Himalayas were somewhere before him, Petty pulled the plane into a sharp, banking turn; eastward, and hopefully away. High winds and mountainside turbulence fought the effort's of Flight 211's crew to save their plane. She shuddered and pitched, battered violently from all directions at once. A shrieking headwind took hold, abruptly slamming the plane below stall speed.

Jae throttled up, heart thudding so loudly that she couldn't hear her own muttered prayer, nor Petty's brief call to International Rescue. They never saw the mountain. Instead, at the apex of her turn, the plane's belly brushed the icy flank of Sagarmatha. She skidded, bounced into the air briefly, then came apart, nose burying itself in snow while her ruptured tail section came to rest a few hundred yards away, just below the Northeast Ridge.


	43. Chapter 43: The Mountain

**43: The Mountain**

_Chinese Airspace, over Tibet- _

Once past the Kunlun Mountains, Scott began his descent. Thunderbird 1 plunged screaming into cloud cover so dense, winds so fierce, that no local rescue effort was even contemplated. In late September the Himalayas' mood was savage and unpredictable, and even the largest helijets would have been tossed like straws.

At this point, the plane had been down for several long hours; any survivors would be battling shock and hypothermia as well as critically sparse air. If they'd reached their emergency survival gear, all might yet be well, but speed remained vital.

Following 211's emergency location transmitter, Scott reduced thrust, slowing his Bird's airspeed and losing altitude. His running lights were almost lost in heavy, swirling snow, and he could see nothing at all through the view screen. This was the sort of landing situation that Navy pilots… pardon, Naval _aviators…_ claimed to love: total white-out. Just like they did, Scott relied on his instruments to paint a picture of the landscape's jagged profile.

Over the Tibetan Plateau, over wind-polished glacier and clawing rock he flew, Cindy's warnings still sharp in his mind. Less than nothing… a sneeze or displaced stone… might trigger a fatal avalanche. So, Scott flew with total concentration and minimal thrust, light as the shadow of a wheeling hawk.

"We'll be setting down a few hundred yards below the crash site," he told his younger brother. "Suit up, and get ready to climb. …And set out my gear, as well. We're going to need goggles, cold-weather suits, equipment packs and plenty of oxygen. Go!"

Gordon was unstrapped and out of his seat before Scott had finished talking. Bracing himself against the rocket plane's occasional wild pitch, he made his way to the gear locker and began suiting up.

A heat-generating body suit went on first, followed by a looser, Gore-Tex mid-garment, cramponed boots, gloves and his padded orange snowsuit. There were several tethering rings on this outermost garment, which was one-piece, hooded and all but rip-proof. (He could thus be secured to Thunderbird 1 by means of a spooled line, and retrieved in the event of a fall. Handy.) Powerful goggles went on next, endowed with the high-tech ability to switch vision settings. Using this eyewear, Gordon could see through walls and into vehicles, detect the heat signature of a crash survivor, or move about safely in total darkness, all at the turn of a wavelength dial. Better yet, no one would be able to make out the upper half of his face, effectively disguising the gold medalist's identity.

He fastened his supplemental oxygen mask as Thunderbird 1 began her final descent. The weather down there was almost catastrophically foul. She lurched and bounced, battered by updrafts and sudden, vicious wind shear. Ground effect and good piloting were all that saved the sleek rocket plane from augering into the mountainside like a silvery arrow; that, and her anti-gravity impellers.

In the windowless locker area, hearing gale-force winds and feeling Thunderbird 1's troubled, cautious descent, Gordon clung fast to a bulkhead brace. He was too heavily padded, at that point, to strap himself into a seat.

"Hang on!" Scott called back, "I've found a possible landing site… bringing her down."

A bit dry-mouthed, Gordon nodded and wove one arm through the nylon webbing that secured Scott's cold-weather gear. He didn't feel up to shouting.

In the next 45 seconds, Thunderbird 1 plummeted, fluttered upward again, yawed wildly to port, and then swung hard about, like a paper wad being toyed with by a giant cat. Another roller-coaster drop took place, worse than anything he'd endured in Pod 4. Then, after a bit of jigging, she settled herself; perching with a faint, reverberating crunch.

Thunderbird 1 came to rest on a fifty degree slope of wind-sculpted ice and boulder-strewn shale. She slid a bit, but Scott's strategically deployed impellers halted what might have been a fatal plunge. A slither, a sudden jerk, and then they were safely down.

"Definite survivors," Scott called over the comm unit in Gordon's hood. "I'm picking up what looks like a heating unit, and some flares. Trying radio…"

Something that had been knotted tight within both of them loosed, just a bit. There was someone alive out there; a chance to make amends.

"Bingo. Got a contact… Stewardess, not very coherent. Probable hypoxia and pulmonary edema, but still alive. And she says there are others."

Better by the moment.

"Right, then," Gordon responded, voice a bit muffled by the oxygen mask. "I'm off, Scott. I'll fix the rope from cargo hatch to crash site, and begin ferryin' victims."

"FAB," came his brother's confident reply. "Make it quick, but be careful. No telling what you'll find out there. I'll join you just as soon as I post-flight and suit up."

Gordon deplaned via the cargo hatch. An impatient button-press deployed the loading ramp, which sank to the ground with a quickly drowned hum. Awed, Gordon stared for a moment at blank, screaming whiteness. The sudden cold and pressure change made his ears pop, rather like a too-sudden dive. Wisely, he fastened one end of his tether to a recessed hull ring before stepping outside. Two, three paces down the ramp and he could no longer see Thunderbird 1. High time to plant a flare and switch on his goggles.

Bent almost double against a wind that threatened to hurl him off the mountain, Gordon inched down the ramp. At the bottom, he fumbled a magnesium flare out of his equipment pack, then positioned and lit the thing. It cast a sudden wide fish bowl of searing light, illuminating wind-blown snow and a bit of the ramp. Hopefully, any walking wounded would now be able to find the hatch… though he wasn't certain how far his light extended, or how able-bodied the victims were.

But, as fate would have it, they were granted three major strokes of good fortune:

_First,_ a Tracy Aerospace jet fuel additive had worked spectacularly; Fireflash crashed, but did not burn.

_Second, _the capricious weather all at once decided to clear. What had been blizzard conditions for the last twelve days abruptly shifted to frigid, bleak, whisper-silent calm. Clouds broke and melted away to reveal the sun, sharp as a scalpel.

_Third,_ the crash survivors had employed their emergency kits, hanging on till help arrived.

_Eerie, the wind's sudden death_...

Untrustworthy, too. With the flare still spattering and hissing behind him, Gordon shouldered into his heavy equipment pack and took a few hesitant steps. His boots bit into the ice and held fast. Something of a bother to walk this way, but he didn't slip.

Above him curved a bright blue vault, piercing and remote. Ahead lay the downed plane, dark against diamond-scattered snow. Marked by orange flares, it seemed broken-toy small, like something swatted aside and discarded.

Gordon toiled up the slope, trailing his tether and puffing icy mist. Further down the mountainside there were clouds, an ocean of white from which grey peaks projected like jagged islands. He'd never seen anything like it; not the Pyrenees, nor the Alps, not the Atlas Mountains, even.

He had to watch his footing more than his surroundings, able to look about only when he paused to get his bearings and correct a stubborn leftward drift… But, even so, the view beggared description. He was reminded of whipped cream with broken Oreo cookies jumbled in, except stupendously _larger_. Be rather nice to come back, the young aquanaut reflected, under better circumstances.

Returning to business, he testedhis steps, making sure ofeach secure foothold before venturing another. The tether unspoiled in short jerks as he panted slowly upward. Even with supplemental oxygen, climbing at altitude was no joke. Each crunching footfall, gasping breath and upward lurch was a major, head-splitting effort.

"Gordon!" Scott's voice came loud over the comm. "I'm out. I've contacted Lhasa. They're going to try dispatching a helijet to base camp. We get the victims that far, they'll handle the rest."

The swimmer turned laboriously to give his brother a tired wave. Scott (as heavily padded as Gordon, himself) stood by Thunderbird 1, waving back.

"Brilliant," Gordon replied. "Don't trust this fair-weather spell… so I'd best push on, Scott. Catch up as you can."

"Roger that. Right behind you. Great... damn place reminds me of the Pole."

Gordon then turned, pivoting by means of four separate, carefully-placed steps. Once more facing the shattered wreckage, he resumed forward progress. The wind began to pick up again, creating little dust-devils of swirling snow. It seeped through hood and boots and goggles, deadly cold and heavy with the stench of spilt jet fuel. Overhead, the clouds began gathering, as though Everest had reconsidered her earlier good will. Increasing his pace, Gordon pushed upward, setting small goals:

_Reach the cracked boulder… the band of yellow rock… that bluish ice fall… the torn wing fragment… _

And then he was there. The plane had broken on impact into two main parts. The nose, and about a third of the fuselage, lay a bit further upslope, partly buried in snow. The tail section and remaining fuselage were just ahead, looking like a slightly crumpled paper cup.

Trailing wires spun and swayed in the rising wind. Red seat cushions and carry-on baggage lay scattered about the slope. Someone's laptop had landed in a pitted ice hollow, its cover popped open. There was a wheeled aluminum drink cart, too, beside one of the burnt-down flares.

Gordon reached up to adjust the setting on his goggles. Switching to infrared, he had a second, closer look around. Now the flares glowed anew, though outshone by a box-like affair visible through the plane's aluminum-alloy skin; the emergency heater. Around it, barely moving, were huddled the surviving crew and passengers.

As the wind began to mumble and keen, Gordon shrugged his pack into a more comfortable position and hurried toward the broken tail section. At the dark, misshapen opening he paused.

"Goin' in, Scott," he announced.

Then, taking firm hold of a projecting seat frame, he stepped cautiously off the windy slope and into the plane.


	44. Chapter 44: For Every Action

**44: For Every Action…**

_Everest, the north face; in bitter cold and rising wind-_

He pulled himself off the slope and into the downed plane's crumpled rear, fastening his tether-end to a seat mount as he did so. A light commuter shuttle, the A-500 was larger than his father's corporate jets, but not excessively so. She'd come apart on impact with the mountain, ripped in half between rows four and five.

Her nose lay farther up-slope, half-buried in snow. It was the tail section that held the flight's survivors, though, and most of his muddled interest.

Thin air… thin _cold_ air… had by this time made him quite giddy, and Gordon would no doubt have done something perfectly mad (such as snowboarding that broken wing segment off the mountainside) if it hadn't been for the bracing jolts of sobriety provided by his supplemental oxygen. (_Well, it all made perfect sense at the time…)_

The plane had rolled with the slope, a bit. He wasn't able to simply walk upright down the aisle, but had to step carefully along arm rests and seat frames, his cramponed boots snagging against cushioned armrests or skittering on polished metal. Bloody things were more hindrance than use, at the moment, and he'd gladly have removed them if he could have done so without losing his feet.

The plane's listing interior was dim and cold, half her ports facing snowy ground and leaky wing, the other half frosted over. Carry-on bags, open and rifled through, lay scattered chaotically about. Someone had blocked the far end of the cabin with one of those tracked, foldable privacy curtains; to retain heat, no doubt. Good job.

He heard voices, what sounded like someone wheezing into a radio or cell phone. Didn't know the language, though.

Bracing himself with a hand to the overhead luggage compartment, Gordon hurried his pace. He'd have shouted aloud, but couldn't spare the breath. It was a measure of just how stunned and chilly they were, that the crash survivors failed to detect his clumsy approach.

Gordon reached the curtain as fiercely renewed winds began buffeting the wreck. He found the latch (below a crimson Fireflash logo, and above that of Airbus). ...Fiddled with the thing, at last pressing the proper assortment of buttons. Instant results; the curtain's lowest part rattled noisily downward, the higher bit sagging like a deflated accordion.

At any rate, there was now a gap through the stiff material into the coughing, weeping and blanket-huddled mass beyond. Gordon stepped through, adjusting his goggles. Fifteen, he reckoned, some with obviously broken limbs or puddling internal injuries.

They'd cobbled together a nest of sorts, against the rear bulkhead and centering on a small emergency heater. Several drew tiredly on their handful of precious oxygen bottles, passing them on once they'd got a decent lungful.

At the jangling collapse of the curtain some of the folk looked around. A middle-aged Indian man had been talking into a cell phone, rocking back and forth in evident pain. Now he cried out exultantly, turning the phone so that its lens faced Gordon. Against the rules, usually, but the young swimmer was… _A:_ too light-headed, and… _B:_ too well-masked to worry.

Barely audible above the wind's frantic moaning he panted,

"Afternoon… Ladies an' gentlemen… I'm with International Rescue… an' I'm here t' help. Is… is there anyone present speaks English?"

A bruised young woman stood up then, rather shakily. Beneath her airline blanket, Gordon caught flashes of a red uniform; the flight attendant. She said, after taking a quick breath of emergency oxygen,

"Most of us… at least understand it, Sir. What… shall we… shall we do?"

For others had got to their feet, as well; eager to be quit of the place. Several braced their less steady fellows, or attempted to wake those who'd lost consciousness.

Odd… they'd undoubtedly begun the flight spread throughout the cabin, polite and reserved. Now, they were closer than siblings.

"Right," Gordon replied, shrugging out of his heavy equipment pack. "I've rigged a line… back t' the rescue craft. Got a mate… comin' up behind. Medical attention an' proper attire first… _then _we depart."

As for Scott, he was rather less than halfway up the icy slope when Island Base called. No visuals; he received his father's transmission over the comm in his hood.

"Scott!" the elderTracy snapped, sounding like a man juggling a dozen live hand-grenades.

"Go ahead, Dad," the pilot responded, pausing for breath. In good shape… but no athlete… his progress was slower than Gordon's had been.

_Damn that wind…_

"Scott, I've been in touch with the Dowager-Empress and the CAAC. China has offered to supply a couple of Zhishengji-7s to airlift the victims from Lhasa back to Peking. Also… Airbus has requested that we retrieve the Flight Data Recorder. Not a top priority, Son, but get it if you safely can. Understood?"

"Yeah…" Scott replied, dully amazed that anything this razor-blade thin could be referred to as 'air'. It seemed a very long time since he'd passed high-altitude survival training. "Roger that, Dad."

Where Gordon saw beauty, Scott perceived only bleak stone, implacable ice… and serrated, paper-cut wind.

"Watch your step, Son. Forget the black box if isn't easily accessible."

Good advice, considering that the damn thing had probably ejected itself clean off the mountain. He'd look, though. The recordershadvery fewfrequencies, sothis oneshouldn't prove too hard to track.

"FAB, base, and out. I'll… be in touch."

His father acknowledged, and then signed off, leaving Scott to continue his gasping upward trudge. Behindlay a spectacular drop, above, a fast-lowering ceiling. The sun had vanished behind a bank of wet-wool snow clouds, immediately dropping the temperature to what felt like liquid nitrogen levels. ...And Cindy _enjoyed _this?

Funnily enough, it was just about then that his fiancée rang up. Using a code he'd given her after the 'Ladies Aid Society' rescue, Cindy accessed his comm. Naturally, he wasn't about to complain about the conditions… not to her, anyway.

"Hey, Fella,' she said, sounding concerned. "How's it going up there?"

The slope's pitch had increased to the point that he was just about doubled over. Wind didn't help much, either. Looking up, Scott could see a bank of clouds breaking like dark waves against the summit.

"Great. Time of my life, Hon. Reminds me, too… I'm higher up this piece of rock than… you ever got."

Silence. Then,

"Bite me. I climbed. _You_ rode. And next time, just for that, you're coming with me. We'll see who gets farther. Just, seriously, be careful. Concentrate, don't skimp on the oxygen, and if you get any sudden bright ideas, they're probably bad. Like, _fatally_ bad. Don't stop if you can help it, because the hardest damn thing is getting started again, believe me. And… I love you."

Inside his mask, Scott smiled.

"That's what they all say," he joked. With the taut-line to follow and a friendly woman to spar with, life on the mountain was all at once pretty damngood.

"…and then they leave. Any more… advice?"

Almost there…

"Yup. This is going to sound stupid, but, um… as soon as you or Gordon get a chance, pour out a little tea or something, ask permission to be there and say 'thank you'. I'm serious. It's a Sherpa thing."

In five years with the Air Force, Scott Tracy had learned one thing with perfect clarity: respect the local customs.

"Gotcha. Tea and polite… conversation. Will do."

As it happened, he'd inched his way past some scattered cushions and carry-ons to the fallen drink cart.

There was a lidded cup of something… tea or coffee, he couldn't be sure which… not far from the line. After Cindy clicked out and he'd taken a preliminary report from Gordon, Scott left the trail to fetch the cup, scooping it clumsily out of the fuel-drenched snow. Made of heavy, shock resistant plastic, the cup had a tiny heating unit on the bottom. He depressed a small switch, and moments later had a cup of scalding-hot caffeine in his hands. Steam rose when he peeled the lid off, smelling pleasantly of Chai spices. Tea, then. There was a small heap of sugar in a blister pack on the lid, so he added some to the milky brew. Then, feeling rather foolish, he slogged his way over to the nearest upright rock and poured hot tea all over it, dampening the grey stone.

"Thanks," he said, suddenly very aware. 'Alive' meant an awful lot, just then; it meant stone and ice and gusting wind… glimpses of jewel-blue sky between massed and tumbling clouds. It meant seventeen very small people, struggling for life on Earth's mightiest peak. Drawing a quick breath of supplemental oxygen, he added,

"Thanks for letting us reach them. Throw in the black box, and…"

Scott saw the red flash before he quite comprehended it. Weapons-grade laser, overhead, from somewhere behind and to the right. _Not _aimed at him, or at the plane, the scarletglow played for several seconds upon a heavy cornice of ice and rock, about a quarter of a mile up the slope.

Big, half-melted chunks began to fall, blasting great plumes of loose shale and spuming snow. Avalanche.

Scott hit the comm, and a certain harness button.

_"Gordon!" _he shouted, _"Brace!"_


	45. Chapter 45: An Object in Motion

**45: An Object in Motion**

_Everest's North Face,amid gathering storm clouds-_

At the frantic click of a harness button (midway up on the left strap) Thunderbird 1 generated a sudden beam of shimmering energy. The force ray shot straight up, about thirty feet into the air, and then fanned around and downward on all sides, like the decorative fountain in the courtyard of TA's Sydney Branch, or one of those plasma globes. Soap bubble-thin, streaked with color and writhing electromagnetic discharges, the force dome snapped shut over Scott Tracy, Thunderbird 1 and both halves of the wrecked plane. A pre-programmed thing… all he'd had to do before leaving the cockpit was input a few size parameters… and a vital one.

Snow, ice and bits of shattered rock came rumbling down the mountainside, gathering power and ammunition all the way. Colliding with fixed boulders, the fluid grey mass spumed upward, shooting far into the lowering sky, then divided to flow around, pushing rocks, scree, long-dead climbers and giant slabs of ice like some roaring, cracking snowplow. _He'd heard that sound before._

The wall of roiling snow towered high above him, looking like a frozen, end-of-the-world tidal wave. Bits of shale at Scott's feet skittered and bounced. The entire slope shook.

It came on, blocking mountain peak and sullen sky, smelling of wet rock, dredged earth and primal horror. Scott raised his arms to shield his face, a common enough gesture, pitiful in its futility. The avalanche crashed like furious surf against his dome, surging over and around… but not through.

The slope vibrated and bucked, resonating with the voracious flow overhead. Scott lost his footing. Crashing to hands and knees he slipped helplessly backward, pumping hard with both feet, grabbing at outcrops and aircraft shreds in a wild attempt to brake his plunge.

As the dome compressed,its interior temperature spiked. All was sudden darkness and thunderous, head-cracking noise. Cutting through this tumult he heard the pained shriek of straining metal, saw a spray of white sparks. The plane's tail section began to swing around, spilling more debris. It slithered a few yards down the slope, fetching up against a jutting boulder with a final, ringing crash.

Not Scott. He continued to fall, would soon be smeared to the force wall by several tons of loose, sliding shale. Ten, maybe fifteen seconds of useless scrambling, and then he was plummeting along a sheer, wind-scoured rock face. Sharply tilted, slick as a playground slide, the long slab offered almost nothing to catch himself with. Then a brief gleam, a sudden change of texture; stone–smooth to blasted-ice gritty.

_The belaying ax, on his equipment belt… last chance, maybe_. Quick as the thought occurred, he wrestled the tool off its clip and then, with all the force he could summon, Scott plunged its sharp bill into a lone vein of ice that split the black rock. The ax bit deep and held, nearly jerking his arm from its socket. Stuff (flakes of stone, snow and crash debris) clattered past and into him, gashing his gloves and cracking his goggles; but the ax held on, and so did Scott. Overhead, illuminated by his force shield's crackling violet discharge, the avalanche crested, bore down, and passed on. Roaring snow in great torrents reached the base of the slope and rocketed out into thin air, leaving nothing behind but a few tumbling boulders and a fragile-seeming dome. The noise, too, died away; deep booms, cracks and rumbles giving way to faint rattles and hissing wind.

He was alive. Ought to have been grateful, but for some reason, all that Scott could think of was his mother. There'd been no force shield for her, no ice ax. Just an early grave in thundering snow, very far from home.

_"SCOTT!"_

Someone… Gordon… was shouting his name. Dumb kid had just about thrown himself from the battered wreck. Must have lost his footing twelve times sliding along the tether to reach Scott, but he got there. Stopping at a point level with his older brother, Gordon sized up the situation (abouttwelve feet apart, they were), then remotely detached the lower end of the tether. Cleverly, he used the now-free line to swing himself over, one arm out-thrust. Like a pendulum… two, three times he half ran, half dangled on the steeply pitched rock face.

On the fourth go, Scott was able to seize his younger brother's hand. They got a solid wrist lock, and then Scott released his belaying ax and grabbed wildly for Gordon's equipment belt. Made it, taking some of the pressure of his brother's straining left arm. Back they swung, kicking against sheer, slippery stone to reach a kinder section of slope.

…And there they sat for a time, head ache-y and nauseous, neither speaking. Finally, Gordon gestured toward Thunderbird 1, perched slightly askew herself, and closer to the edge.

"Sorry, Scott," the young swimmer told him, voice a bit muffled by the air mask,"f'r mucking up… the safety line… I'll have it rigged up again in no time at all. Promise."

"S'okay," the fighter pilot replied, still a little shaken. "You did good. But… let's, um… let's get this show… wrapped up. Wasn't an accident, Gordon… the avalanche. We were, um… we were fired on. Aircraft mounted laser, probably. We gotta… call base… and get the hell outta Dodge."

Oddly enough, Gordon hadn't released his grip on Scott's arm, partly due to the once again lowering temperature. Having been treating victims, he wasn't wearing his own climbing gloves, and his hands had begun to turn blue.

"Damn, but it's cold," he said by way of conversation, helping Scott to his feet.

"Sure is," the pilot responded. Then, before calling in to base, he stripped one of his insulated gloves and handed it to Gordon. "Thanks. For the help, I mean."

…Mom would have been very proud of the son she'd died to protect.


	46. Chapter 46: Night Flight

Thanks, E.D. and Tikatu... edits coming soon.

**46: Night Flight**

_Thunderbird 2, leaving Tracy Island-_

Virgil had been a little slower to set off than the others, as he'd had to load the correct pod into Thunderbird 2. For this particular mission (freeing victims of an underground train wreck) he was going to need Firefly, advanced medical gear andsome heavy-duty structural braces. Certain preparations had to be made, as speed and good intentions were nothing without the right equipment.

Eventually, Hackenbacker got the pods and software sorted out. _Then,_ Virgil was able to stub out his third cigarette and head for the cockpit. Brains rode shotgun, muttering to himself as he played with logistics on his PDA. He never spoke much on rescue flights, preferring instead to set up contingency plans and study the situation.

They strapped in without exchanging more than three or four words, Hackenbacker occupied and Virgil content to let him remain so. They had more than enough to do, both of them.

At first throttle-up, Thunderbird 2 left her cliff-side lair. Massive and slow, she growled her way down the tarmac, surrounded by drooping palms. It would be nightfall, soon, and the floodlights had already cut on. Bright circles played over muscular hull and bold, white '2', blunt nose and stubby wings. Virgil accessed the runway cameras to watch, and not just because she'd been upgraded, again. In her own way (less sleek than 1 or 3, slower than vanished 7) Thunderbird 2 was utterly beautiful. It was a show he never got tired of.

Virgil taxied to the end of the runway while humming a little Mozart, subconsciously tapping melody contour and chords upon the steering yoke. _Eine kleine Nachtmusik_.

Once in proper position and cleared for takeoff, he triggered Thunderbird 2's launch sequence. Big as she was, on a runway this short, his girl needed help getting into the air.

First a set of clamps locked onto her wheels, their booming thud as loud and familiar as the low hum of the launch ramp's hydraulic jacks. Thunderbird 2 began to tilt, her nose lifting some 45 degrees to the horizontal. Tarmac, palms and glowing sunset vanished from his view screen, replaced by purpling sky and a few shy stars.

Virgil glanced over at Brains, but the engineer failed to respond, too busy sending data files to Houston to notice a little thing like the view. The pilot turned his attention forward, again, waiting for the reverberant clang and flashing indicator lights that announced a locked and ready ramp. And… _there_; good to go.

He ran up the main engines, throttling forward until the giant cargolifter shuddered and roared in her restraints. Shock waves raced away on all sides, rippling grasses, shaking trees, and sending flocks of birds wheeling off in startled panic. Not that they'd long to put up with all his noise and tumult, for moments later the clamps fell away, and Virgil gave her full throttle.

Thunderbird 2 sprang into the air with a last, resounding boom, the flash and heat signature of her launch wellmasked from satellite and ground station, alike.

With a deft touch to her steering rockets, Virgil sent the cargolifter into a sharp, climbing bank, putting her nose toward the coast of distant Chile. Heading in this direction, they'd be plunging deeper into the night, chasing a full moon higher into the sky with every mile.

The last red streak of sunlight had faded from the horizon by the time Virgil leveled off. At 50,000 feet, with Shadowbot providing cover and dense clouds hiding the Pacific, there seemed very little chance of detection. That being the case, he decided to test a few of the steering upgrades. Brains had promised that they'd make Thunderbird 2 easier for a lone pilot to handle, but with Braman down, and the new LOIS system still glitching like damp gunpowder…

"Th- They work," Brains stated flatly, when Virgil angled the steering rockets for a second shallow turn. The engineer hadn't raised his eyes from the computer's little screen. "Y- You'll find 2 as, ah… as functional and r- responsive as ever, I believe."

The pilot pushed his cap aside long enough to run a big hand through his shock of wavy dark hair.

"Yeah, I know, Brains… I just wanted to get a feel for how she handles, is all, _before_ we reach the danger zone."

Moonlight gleamed off the engineer's glasses as he turned his head to reply.

"I recall that your, ah… your f- father indicated a n- need for, ah… for expeditious progress, Virgil; _not_ f- flight testing. The n- new system is, ah… is entirely trustworthy."

_Okay..._ Just a little touchy, there? Made sense, he supposed… Hackenbacker (more than Virgil's father, even) _had_ to be feeling bad for all the trouble Braman had caused.

"No problem. ETA to Ciudad Real: 21 minutes, 42.7 seconds from… _mark._ There before you know it, Brains."

The engineer's attention returned to his softly chiming PDA.

"I'm q- quite cognizant of our, ah… our flight path, Virgil, thank you."

So much for light conversation. Thinking that some of the problem might be Fermat, Virgil tried another tack.

"I'm sure they'll be all right. The kids, that is. Couple of loose elephants and a stuck bus or two aren't much more than a foreign PR opportunity, really. It's Scott who's got the hard job."

Once again, Brains looked up and over. Blue eyes perfectly level, voice nearly lost in 2's deep, vibrating thrum, he said,

"I am a firm b- believer in Murphy, Virgil. _And_ in th- the laws of, ah… of thermodynamics. It is axiomatic that n- not only _can_ things go wrong… th- they almost certainly w- _will_."

At this point, Virgil decided to just shut up and fly. Clearly, Brains didn't feel like conversing. Trouble was, he'd gotten kind of spoiled, having Gordon for a co-pilot. The kid loved to talk, which had gotten on his older brother's nerves, at first, but… well, it did make the time pass. Brains, on the other hand, had better things to do.

The cockpit fell more or less silent, livened only by engine noise, occasional, hissing thruster bursts and the faint clatter of stylus and keyboard. At least high-altitude night flights were challenge enough to keep him interested; and the view alone was worth losing sleep for.

Round as a coin, a full moon shed her soft silver light, crafting entire cities from the cloudscape below. Towers, hills and shadowed valleys there were, ethereal and pale as something out of a drowsing mind. He'd have to paint that someday, Virgil decided, or find a piece of music that did it for him.

Unfortunately for daydreams, stealth and great art, those clouds halted just short of the Chilean border, barred from reaching land by the frigid Humboldt Current. Like an icy mountain range, the current blocked moisture and shriveled clouds, dumping tons of rain into the Pacific, leaving just a cold, bone-dry wind to howl over the resulting desert; the Atacama. And what a desert…! The only things to be had there were salt, lava flows, giant sand pictures and ancient mummies. Some parts of this wasteland had received not a single drop of rain in all of recorded history… which was why John had ended up training there, along with the rest of the Ares III crew; the Atacama made a fairly decent stand-in for Mars.

Virgil looked up through his overhead port, seeking the red planet's sharp little glint. They'd be home soon, hopefully; with wild stories to tell and alien scenery to describe. …And, in John's case, a deep yen for beer. They'd sit down for a 'conference'; Virgil, Scott and John. Talk all day and into the night, probably, about everything that had happened in eight long months, and why John's sorry ass needed to stay on Earth, where it belonged.

Pushing these thoughts aside, Virgil called into Ciudad Real tower, and began his descent. With a tail wind speeding her along, Thunderbird 2 shot over Chile's red, wrinkled landscape like a meteor, the fanged Andes on one side and a jeweled ribbon of highway on the other. He pushed forward on the yoke, angling rockets for a steep leftward bank. Boulders and hills zipped past, growing larger as she neared the ground. At last, stooping to meet her flickery-pale moon shadow, Thunderbird 2 touched down on a bed of dried salt. She bounced once, undercarriage squealing, then hit the ground to stay. Still doing over a hundred miles an hour, Virgil applied full-burn thrust reversers to slow her momentum. He and Brains were shoved into their seats by the sudden braking force, but it took awhile to stop, even so. Corroded mining equipment flashed past, vying with a fleet of police cars, blasting salt and the Pan-American Highway for Virgil's attention. Had to watch where he was going; the _last_ thing IR needed now was to have him wreak further havoc by swerving onto a public thoroughfare. With all this in mind, Virgil felt deep and genuine relief once the jouncing, grumbling Bird began to slow.

Directly ahead and drawing closer by the moment, the lights of Ciudad Real gilded the northern horizon. A flourishing port city, Real guarded the west entrance to the mighty Trans-Andean Tunnel, one of the engineering marvels of the 21st century world. Consisting of three levels (freight, bullet train and private traffic), the tunnel traversed an entire continent, surfacing 1,584 miles further east in Rio de Janiero. Beautiful work, but a terrible place for a train wreck; hundreds needed evacuation, with very little room to maneuver.

As the local constabulary raced up, blue-and-red lights shredding the darkness, Virgil at last brought Thunderbird 2 to a complete halt. She ended her flight in the shelter of a barren hill, a safe distance from road and city. Virgil smiled, listening as her engine noise faded to soft, steamy rumbles, then quieted altogether. He'd been wrong. They'd actually arrived in _less_ than his estimated 21.43 minutes.

Brains took the comm, using its instant messaging feature to make plans with the gathering authorities. (He _intensely_ disliked visual conferencing.) Meanwhile, Virgil hurried through his post-flight. Lots to do. Besides filling out the flight log and shielding her nuclear pile, he had to trigger the cargolifter's light-warping invisibility field. No cameras, no prying eyes, _no_ espionage; those were the rules. International Rescue's technology was too dangerous and unstable to be allowed into the hands of the Hood, or a terrorist organization like the Red Path… not that _they'd _know what to do with it.

But Virgil had his own reasons for making certain that 2 was absolutely secure; Chilean law enforcement simply didn't play. The small coastal nation hemorrhaged money with every hour that her tunnel remained shut. Anyone stupid enough to break the cordon of police and military vehicles surrounding Thunderbird 2 would quickly become unwilling guests of the Chilean judicial system. Virgil had reason to know; he'd blown a quarter of his trust fund the year before, getting some video-happy spring breakers out of prison. Okay, they'd tried to spray-paint their schoolmascot on the underside of her wing; but _life?_

Hitting a series of switches, Virgil initiated the pod-release sequence.

"You ready?" he asked, looking over at Brains. The process could not be completed until both men had entered pod 2 and taken control of their respective vehicles.

"A- Absolutely, Virgil. Lead, ah… lead on."

A few minutes later they'd clanged their way down the cockpit boarding ladder and into pod 2. It was more empty space than anything else, for the present equipment used very little room. Firefly rested in her braces, yellow as Thunderbird 4, but a great deal less sea-worthy. She was a top-of-the-line fire fighting and debris clearing machine, made of exotic alloys and powered by nuclear batteries. Relatively low to the ground, Firefly ran on heavy metal tank treads, and was nearly impossible to scratch, much less destroy. All in all, a good little craft, able to survive collapsing buildings and hellish heat the way other vehicles shrugged off bug strikes. Not much to look at, maybe, but her no-glamour sturdiness had already saved countless lives, including Lady Penelope's.

Virgil strode forward. Footfalls ringing loud in the huge pod, he boarded Firefly by means of a print-locked overhead hatch, climbing from treads, to access ladder, to roof, and thence inside.

Needing transportation of his own, Brains took the wheel of another vehicle, a recently modified emergency-landing 'elevator car'. He'd reconfigured the car to run along a bullet train's magnetic track, enabling faster arrival.

"L- Local authorities have c- cleared the, ah… the Pan-American Highway into Ciudad Real, Virgil," the engineer informed him, sounding a little more cheerful. "We're free to, ah… to begin operations."

"FAB," Virgil grunted, strapping himself into Firefly's tight cockpit with all the enthusiasm of a Great Dane squeezing into a beagle's kennel. "And then… when we've wrapped this up, Brains… let's talk about leg room."

The engineer sighed.

"S- Sore knees are a small p- price to, ah… to pay for m- more insulation and, ah… and a thicker f- fire wall, Virgil. Safety before c- comfort, every time."

He'd never yet won an argument with Brains, and apparently wasn't going to score his first victory tonight. In fact, there was probably an abstract painting or atonal overture in there, somewhere. Something like: _Rage of the Artist's Soul Against Icy Genius…_ Yeah. Definite possibilities.

Another quick button-press and Thunderbird 2 released her pod, rising as regally as a Maharaja's caparisoned elephant. Virgil listened closely, gauging his Bird's status from the clean hum of hydraulic legs and the sharp clash of ratcheting locks. Glitching LOIS or not, she sounded pretty good; maybe Brains knew what he was talking about.

A green light flashed up on Firefly's instrument panel. The cargolifter had cleared the pod, readying phase two. Virgil nodded to himself.

"Okay," he said aloud, keying open the pod door. "Showtime."

As the ramp thudded open before them, admitting cold desert air and whirling police lights, he added,

"Sure hope it's a quick one."


	47. Chapter 47: The Tunnel

**47: The Tunnel**

_Ciudad Real, the Atacama desert, Chile-_

They'd surged along the dust-washed highway, flanked by noisy police cars and urban assault vehicles. Crowds of motorists, forced off the road by the Chilean authorities, watched the strange convey rumble past. Some cheered; others gestured defiantly or turned away, too accustomed to chaos and spectacle to work up much interest. Just as well, considering how many opportunities there were for a quick, saleable photo. Firefly had no invisibility field, and Virgil had other things on his mind.

A chain of geysers fired off in the middle distance, shooting great clouds of super-heated steam high into the desert air. Further away, at the foot of the Andes, he glimpsed the sullen glow of cooling lava. All this, and geologically active, too; _terrific _place for a tunnel…

Pressed for time, Virgil floored Firefly's accelerator pedal, but couldn't wring much more out of her. The small vehicle was built for endurance, not speed, but at last Ciudad Real crested the horizon, all glare and noise and civil confusion.

Virgil got a quick impression of tall loading cranes, huge warehouses and damaged quays frantic with activity. Then they turned off the Pan-American Highway. The usual route being blocked with refugees, their police escort led Firefly through the narrow lanes ofan evacuated residential neighborhood which she was too bulky to safely negotiate.

Virgil winced as Firefly's treads clawed through the trunk of a parked car, then plowed over someone's fence.

"Sorry, folks," he murmured, genuinely upset, "I'll replace it first thing tomorrow."

_And_ the striped swing set, the garage, the flower shop…

Thankfully, they soon reached downtown Real, and the tunnel'swest entrance. Rising amid pink marble office buildings, it looked less like a tube than some kind of smoke-spouting, triple off-ramp. Accident victims and local rescue crews poured from the tunnel, crowding the entrance lanes and robot toll booths as well as several dozen side streets. Nor were these the only impediments; glaring-bright construction lamps had been set up around a small village of triage tents, creating a veritable obstacle course.Virgil and Brains were forced to wait fifteen long, frustrating minutes while a path was cleared for Firefly and the modified elevator car.

When at last it was safe to do so, Virgil maneuvered cautiously past crowded toll booths and onto the lowest tier; the bullet-train level. This section had the highest clearance, 35 ft, and lay just beneath the commercial freight lane. According to one Manuel Paniagua (the city transport minister) both levels had been severely damaged, starting four miles into the throat of the tunnel, and continuing a considerable distance beyond.

What had happened was this: Braman's sudden collapse had caused a city-wide power outage and systems crash. By the time power was restored, approximately ten minutes later, a harbor-bound freighter had gone amok, smashing through two separate loading docks and into a warehouse, while a pair of bullet trains got their signals crossed.

The first train, receiving data that indicated trouble ahead, slowed to a 20 mile-an-hour crawl. The second train, the 5:50 from Lima, gathered instead that the tunnel was about to be closed to traffic. Automatically, its computerized throttle engaged, causing the train to surge forward.

(In later years, the tunnel authority would switch to human conductors, but at the time, full automation had seemed the wave of the future.)

5:50 from Lima rear-ended the slower train at about 150 miles per hour. There was, according to survivors, a tremendous crash, followed by the shrill screams of jack-knifing train cars and tearing metal. The slower train's middle four cars piled up and over one another, punching a twenty-foot hole in the floor of the level above. Concrete and steel rained down. A big freight truck plunged halfway through the sudden gap, its cab dangling in mid-air above the shifting, settling train wreck. Fuel hissed from the truck's deeply scored side tanks. Sparks flared, and then fire.

Sensing a heat pulse, the tunnel's sprinklers cut on, spraying jets of icy water and flame retardant in all directions. And all at once, the Trans-Andean Tunnel was a hell of billowing steam and shrill sirens, flickering lights and panicked cries. People rushed about, calling for help on their cell phones or pulling others out of the smashed and twisted vehicles. Those who could, limped for the near opening, but many were forced to retreat further within.

The truck driver had struck his head upon the steering wheel. He was unconscious, with traffic piling up behind his crashed truck in a chain reaction wreck that quickly reached three-and-a-half miles.

When Virgil and Brains reached the mouth of the tunnel, local rescue crews had already evacuated the private vehicle lanes. All of the personal cars were out. They were working now on the weakened freight tier, using ceiling-mounted cranes to pry the traffic jam apart and release trapped drivers. But the badly damaged bottom level, filled with smoldering wreckage and terrified passengers, they just weren't equipped to deal with. Fortunately, help had arrived.


	48. Chapter 48: Down Below

**48: Down Below**

_Trans-Andean Tunnel, Ciudad Real, Chile-_

Firefly headed into the lowest stretch of the tunnel through its terminal station. The low, tank-like rescue machine smashed metal turnstiles and stair rails like paper cutouts, clearing the way for Hackenbacker's elevator car.

There _were_ other ways in. A small service tunnel provided escape and basic maintenance access, but it had already been discounted as too narrow for Firefly, so through the terminal lay their route.

So much steam and smoke filled the air that Virgil was forced to use infrared imaging and don a gas mask, himself. The darkened station lowered onto the tunnel's first rail stop, a tiled platform about a hundred feet across, with numbered, buffer-stopped maglev tracks at either side. Other than that, a city map, a few rows of benches and a drink machine made up the platform's furnishing.

The accident had occurred on track 1, so Virgil directed Firefly off the passenger platform and down the left rail tube, which soon narrowed. The rescue vehicle was built to handle rugged, broken terrain. Her treads were independently mounted, well able to tackle stairs and short drops such as that from platform to track bed… though not without some creaks and bouncing.

Virgil hit the comm.

"I'm heading in, Brains," he announced. "See what you can do about clearing the air, and checking the service tunnel's integrity."

He didn't want the local rescue crews rushing into a potentially fatal trap. Lacking IR's advanced technology, all they were armed with was courage.

"Will do, V- Virgil. Watch, ah… watch yourself, in there."

"FAB. On my way."

And then Firefly was gone, rattling off into smoggy darkness.

Hackenbacker now busied himself checking operation of the tunnel's ventilators. Variable in pitch, they could both pump and extract… but _weren't_ responding to LOIS. He was going to have to debug the new system in a damn quick hurry, or get down there and start the things manually. After that, his _next_ order of business would be stress testing the tunnels, running a diagnostic program in every available wavelength and frequency to search out areas of possible collapse. Until then, Virgil Tracy was on his own…

…And quite busy. The younger man drove as fast as he dared, pausing from time to time to allow groups of coughing, frightened people to clamber past Firefly. Blundering around in the dark, they needed flashlights, first aid and encouragement (and one gasping young boy received Virgil's air mask). He would have liked to hurry on, but couldn't ignore the terrible need all around him. Between one thing and another, it took Virgil most of an hour to traverse those four miles, but his efforts that night saved many lives.

Finally, Firefly reached the accident site. Floodlights on high beam, blast shield in place, Virgil surveyed the damage. Acrid smoke streamed away down the main tunnel, which was awash in flame retardant chemicals and dirty water. Exposed wiring twitched and sparked through what looked like a modernist statue of tormented aluminum and shredded plastic. Fluids dripped and hissed, spattering into the waist-deep flood below. The first three cars lay upon their sides, the sleek 'locomotive' smashed like a soda can against the tunnel wall.

Back from that point rose a jagged tangle of silvery train cars, several with injured people still clinging, afraid to risk a jump into dark, noisome water. Spotting Firefly, the survivors waved and called out, moving as close to the edges of their tiny islands as possible.

Ten… fourteen, he counted, plus an unknown number still trapped within the passenger cars, which would have to be emptied and dragged offbefore the blocked tunnel could be cleared.

Overhead… there was a gap in the concrete ceiling; a big, disintegrating hole, blackened with smoke and spilled fuel. Worse, half of a crashed freight truck dangled through, its cab creaking slowly back and forth, crumbling the upper deck still further. A shadowy figure was just visible within, slumped over the dashboard. Dead or alive, Virgil couldn't yet tell, but he meant to find out.

He nudged Firefly gently forward, raising her snowplow-like blast shield to create a horizontal platform; something a person could stand on. Wishing like hell that John or Gordon was around to translate, Virgil called over the loudspeaker,

"Folks, I'm going to approach the first few cars. Those inside who can make their way out,or already on top, are asked to step forward and find a place on Firefly's blade. Anyone who speaks English, please translate for the rest. Okay… I'm coming over, now."

There were nods of assent, whispered reassurances and hand clasps, as Firefly crept forward, her treads rumbling over buckled concrete and cracked magnet housings. To the first smashed car she came, sending oily, rainbow-shimmered water sloshing away in slow waves.

The blast shield was too high for the stunned older couple (a man and his wife, it looked like) who clung to one another atop the car's crumpled door. She was crying; he appeared to be in shock, bleeding from many cuts and sluggishly patting his wife's shoulder.

Virgil lowered the shield a little, bringing it nearly flush with the car.

"Ma'am, Sir… if you'll just step onto the blast shield, I can pick up some more people and take you to safety. I promise it'll hold your weight. Hurry, please, thatupper deck is unstable."

He wasn't at all sure they'd understood him, but the woman (well dressed, slender, with bobbed grey hair and large eyes) finally nodded. She shook like a dried leaf, but took her husband's hand and stepped from train car to blast shield.

_Two down…with a blocked tunnel and God knows how many to go._


	49. Chapter 49: Vehicle Extrication

Thanks, E.D. and Tikatu... the reviews are appreciated!

**49: Vehicle Extrication**

_Trans-Andean Tunnel, Ciudad Real-_

Seven people were able to simply step off the wreck and be transported down tunnel; the others had to be removed. As quickly as he could Virgil got back to the danger zone, suited up, then broke in and disconnected the drive car's batteries. As local officials had already shut power to that section of tunnel, his risk of electrocution was much lessened. So far, so good.

Next, he dealt with the major chemical hazards, using a few blasts of Firefly's lower deluge gun to dilute the powerful battery acids still leaking from the wrecked train.

This was a 'scoop and run' situation, too hazardous to allow for much on-site medical treatment, and one requiring immediate backup. Brains was still occupied, but Virgil contacted the local 'fireground' dispatch and requested that a team be sent in. _Definitely_, he needed help.

Infrared imaging pinpointed the nearest trapped victims. There were three of them, in various portions of car number two. All he had to do was reach them. With a titanium Haligan bar (the plasma cutter was too dangerous for use here) Virgil pried his way through several layers of crushed aluminum, making just the minimum cuts required to release pressure and free the victims. Two men were first, both requiring oxygen and use of a cervical collar. Thankfully, he had several on hand, and both men were able to move some, once freed.

The next victim, a young black woman, was deeply and terribly pinned; folded up in crumpled metal, and comatose. He worked thirty minutes at the front of the tipped car to remove her, beginning O2, stabilizing her head in the neutral in-line position, applying a trauma patch and talking quietly the whole time. Didn't know if she'd make it, though, hurt as she was. Low blood pressure, weak pulse… clammy skin… shallow breathing and, judging from the rapid abdominal swelling, serious internal injuries. She needed emergency evac, _now._

"Okay, Hon," he told the unconscious young woman, fitting the Velcro extrication splint as gently as he'd have diapered a newborn, "Just gonna wrap you up, here, and then we're going for a ride. It's gonna be fine. You're okay."

He had a backboard, and soon enough, willing assistants in the form of a Chilean rapid intervention team, sent down from the freight deck. The firemen, both in full turnout gear, climbed down into the train car, one about halfway, the other remaining close by Virgil's can-opened entry.

They spoke minimal English, but hand signals and the word 'okay' were pretty universal; and Virgil Tracy, Ignacio Velez and Juan De la Pays made a very effective team, with a little shared language and a lot of patient listening.

Officer De la Pays (the younger one) helped Virgil maneuver the injured woman onto a backboard. They were as careful as possible not to twist her, but their space was limited, and the vehicle canted to one side. It was a mercy, Virgil decided, that she was unconscious. The few unavoidable bumps and jarring would have been agonizing, otherwise.

(21, maybe? Wearing one of those heart-shaped lockets, and tightly braided hair with crystal beads in.)

Nodding at De la Pays, he pushed his end of the backboard up and forward, sliding the whole thing, guided by his new partner, across hard plastic seat backs to Officer Velez. The older fireman took hold of the backboard's front, and began a smooth, even pull. By this time, more local fire-rescue had begun to arrive.

Willing hands seized the woman and bore her away.

"Good luck, Hon," Virgil murmured, before accepting De la Pays' hand up. Maybe he'd be able to check on her, when all this was over…

How many people they ended up removing, how many windows popped, how many seat belts slashed, Virgil quickly lost track of. The truck driver turned out to be the hardest, another dangerous scoop and run.

With De la Pays, who was nimble as well as quick-witted, Virgil climbed high enough to reach the greasy red truck bumper. He and the Chilean fireman hauled themselves hand over hand from the vehicle's still-hot front end to the driver's side door. Virgil slipped once, losing his footing on the truck cab's oily wheel step. He swung outward, dangling by one hand over steaming wreckage and startled, up-turned faces. De la Pays steadied him, though, grimacing a little through his smoke hood, for Virgil Tracy's rock-solid 245 pounds were no joke to arrest.

With a nod of thanks, Virgil regained his footing and turned back to the business at hand. He knocked at the driver's window, calling out,

"Hey in there! _Sir, can you hear me?"_

No response, either to Virgil's English hail, or De la Pays' Spanish one. The man neither twitched, nor made a sound. Just unconscious, hopefully, for he seemed to be breathing.

Virgil tried the door handle. Locked. He had a multi-tool, with a sort of club at one end and a blade at the other. Clinging to the swaying red cab, with bits of concrete raining down from the hole in the deck above and fuel still trickling from the truck's side tanks, Virgil called a warning. Then he used the tool like a hammer, to smash through the vehicle's window.

It resisted easy breaking, forming a web-work of small pieces that had to be cleared with a thrust and sweep of De la Pays' jacketed arm. The Chilean fireman, saying,

"Okay," and repeating it with a vigorous nod, "okay,"

…then reached back in and unlocked the cab door.

"FAB," Virgil taught him, which the Chilean practiced a time or two as they shifted position and opened the door. It swung out and down, causing the cab to bounce, and a little more concrete to clatter and slither away from the hole.

The two men climbed within… _very_ carefully. Touchy job. Through the cracked windshield, Virgil could see tunnel and wreckage, slowly tilting below them.

"Got to hurry," he told the young fireman, tapping at his wrist comm by way of emphasis.

"Effe-Ay-Bee… yes, okay," De la Pays replied, calling something down to the rest of his fire-rescue team in Spanish.

Someone brought up a ladder. Inside the cab, Virgil and Officer De la Pays got a cervical collar on the injured driver. Strong pulse… labored breathing… no obvious swelling of neck or spine… unresponsive.

Virgil used his multi-tool blade to slash through the man's seat belt. Another fireman (this one spoke a little better English) had climbed halfway up the aluminum ladder. He handed up an extrication splint, calling,

"Have care. I hear of worry that she's going to fall, the on-top floor-trucks."

"Understood," Virgil replied tiredly, "and moving as fast as we can."

He and De la Pays slipped the splint behind the driver; not too difficult, as he was slumped pretty far forward. The stabilizing device was positioned up under his armpits, then strapped up and padded (There was an acronym for all this belt work: _Tonight My Baby Looks Hot. _It was a measure of how tired Virgil was that he had to use this to recall the proper order.)

Like most Chileans (De la Pays and the 'English Speaker', for instance) the driver was dark haired, with skin of light brown. Virgil couldn't tell his eye color, though. Brown, too, probably.

Once he and Officer De la Pays had eased the driver out of his dangling truck to the waiting men, Virgil looked over at his impromptu assistant.

"Thanks," he said. "Gracias. You guys do good work."

De la Pays grinned, a flash of brilliant white through the grimy smoke hood.

"De nada, compadre. Y si… and if Rescues Internationale is, eh… for job…" he pointed at himself. "Okay. Me."

Virgil couldn't help grinning back.

"I'll pass that along," he promised, feeling pretty good about life, all of a sudden.

Then Brains called.


	50. Chapter 50: Downfall

Edited again!

**50: Downfall**

_Trans-Andean Tunnel, Ciudad Real-_

His wrist comm beeped repeatedly before Virgil Tracy got a chance to respond. He was on the ladder the firsttime, descending in slow, careful steps to the rickety passenger car below. The truck… in fact, the whole upper deck… appeared ready to go.

He'd stepped off the bottom rung, was standing by to brace Officer De la Pays' descent, when the tunnel ventilators finally cut on. A low, droning hum filled the air, which all at once began to move, taking smoke, steam and stinging chemicals along with it.

The Chilean fire-rescue team began to cheer, slapping each other (and Virgil) on the back. Together with the arrival of a mobile crane, and the safe rescue of three more passengers, the rapidly clearing air was the best development they'd had all night. Things were looking up.

Virgil allowed himself to be cycled out of action along with the first rapid intervention team. Yeah, he could use a cup of strong coffee, a chance to visit the head, and to answer his comm, which was becoming pretty insistent.

"Go ahead, Brains," he said, lifting his wrist after a few swallows of dark, head-clearing brew. He had to raise his voice, for the place where he stood (just beyond the zone of greatest hazard) was a chaos of exhausted firemen, busy field medics and ambulance crews. Very noisy.

The engineer's narrow face flashed onto his wrist comm's tiny screen. In an agitated voice, Hackenbacker snapped,

"Virgil, I've s- scanned both tunnels across the, ah… the spectrum, and I b- believe that we m- may have an intruder."

It took a moment for that idea to roll around and lock into place.

"An intruder…?" Virgil repeated. "Like a saboteur or something?"

"P- Possibly," Brains responded, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with a tense finger jab. "He's in the, ah… the freight tunnel, f- for no official purpose, and a- appears to be carrying s- something about the, ah… the size of a sh-shoebox."

Virgil drained the rest of his coffee in one scalding swallow. Handing the cup off to a female civil defense worker (who smiled at him), he said,

"Bomb?"

"M- my conjecture would be _yes,_ Virgil; but, ah… but a clumsy one. Reminds me of the R- Red Path. The best scan I could a- achieve detected some pretty Paleolithic c- chemistry."

Worse and worse.

"But, enough to bring down a weakened structure."

"E- enough for that, yes. Unless we, ah… we stop him."

Virgil rolled his aching shoulders. Beneath the IR version of a fireman's turnout gear, he still wore a pistol.

"Okay. I'm on it, Brains. Heading for the upper freight deck. Warn city authority, and get me our friend's exact location, if you would."

"FAB, Virgil," the engineer replied, signing out.

Forgetting his helmet and air mask (but scooping a couple of wrapped sandwiches from a nearby cart), Virgil Tracy shook off the need for rest and made his way back through the crowded staging area. A few moments later, he'd stepped through an access door and into the service tunnel. There'd be a wall ladder, somewhere…

His departure was noticed. Still beside the sandwich cart, Juan De la Pays glanced over at an equally puzzled Ignacio Velez. Both men belonged to Ladder 37, and were often partnered during search and rescue situations. Neither spoke fluent English, but…

"Y el…? Que hace?" Velez inquired, finishing a roast beef sandwich in two ravenous bites. _('And him…? What's he doing?')_

De la Pays shrugged, equally confused.

"No se, 'Nacio… Pero, oi la palabra 'bomba', y eso no me gusta. Creo que no es confusado, pero nunca sabes, con Yanquis."

_('Dunno, Nacio… but I heard the word 'bomb', and that I don't like. Don't think he's confused, but you never know, with Yanks.') _

Velez nodded feelingly, then tossed away the sandwich wrapper, seized a few more, and said,

"Claro, muchacho. Vamos a ver si podemos ayudar."

_('That's for sure, buddy. Let's go see if we can help.')_

"Effe-Ay-Bee."

A called-in word to their chief (that the IR agent was wandering into danger alone and without full equipment) got the two firemen clearance to follow and, if necessary, provide assistance. Genuinely concerned, for no-one, _ever_, was supposed to enter a danger zone without backup, Velez and De la Pays sped off in Virgil Tracy's wake.

As for the 'Yanqui', he'd chased his sandwiches down with another alertness tablet. Virgil normally didn't do that, because it was artificial pep, and he'd pay for it later, in spades. _John_ could manage 72 hours at a stretch that way, but his odd brother definitely tended to become more impatient and abrasive the longer he fought sleep. Or… well… maybe he was that way to begin with.

The service tunnel was narrow and flat bottomed. A stark, grey-concrete passage braced with steel, it had battery operated emergency lanterns spaced ten feet apart on ceiling and walls. There were location placards posted beside each of the access doors Virgil jogged past, with a red dot to indicate his current position and an escape route marked in bright green.

He was at S-12 (counting away from Chile, toward Brazil), while Brains' terse intel placed the bomber up in F-23, dodging detection like a pro. Virgil _had_ to intercept him before he reached the wreck site.

Weakened by fire and crash stress, this end of the Trans-Andean tunnel might be brought down by even a pipe bomb, if properly positioned. Nor could they simply evacuate and hope for the best. No time. There were too many truck drivers trapped in the chain-reaction pile up above, and rail passengers still to be cut free, below. Not to mention a great many fire-rescue, civil defense and med personnel who, learning of the added danger, would refuse to leave. Not that Virgil blamed them. Just like International Rescue, they were here to help, and they wouldn't quit before their job was done.

The ventilators were much louder, heard through the narrow shaft of the service tunnel. Their deep,B-flat minorthrumming made his insides vibrate. All this and a free massage, too… what a deal.

There were echoing thumps and rattles, occasional bursts of static from his wrist comm, and wisps of gusty smoke. _(Too bad about the air mask, but maybe one of the responding units upstairs would have a spare smoke hood he could borrow.)_

S-15… 16…

Virgil wanted to head the guy off, or he'd have climbed directly to the freight deck. But it made more sense to stay below for the moment; no wreckage, faster movement.

S-17: As far as he could go without risk of overshooting his quarry. Like all the others, this door was painted red, with white block lettering indicating that it opened onto the rail deck. Beside the door, a steel ladder was bolted, rising through a separate shaft to the levels above.

Virgil tipped his head back to squint upward. The freight deck's access door was just visible amid the shaft's dense shadows. About 50 feet, maybe… A long climb, in his current condition. Oh, well… _'No time like the present'_, as Gordon would have put it.

Brains called in again, just as he was addressing the first rung. Virgil hit the comm, but kept climbing. Reach and pull… step and shove upward… and, _damn, _it was hot…!

"…With M- Minister Paniagua… are you listening, Virgil? He's got, ah… got ground t- troops on the way, I said, and th- there are some, ah… some police units h- helping with the ex- extractions. But 'our friend' h- has evaded them all so far. You've g- got to find a way to, ah… to stop him, Virgil. I've concluded m- my analysis of the, ah… the tunnels, and can predict w- with reasonable accuracy that the f- freight deck will, ah… will n- not survive another insult. If our f- friend delivers his package, we'll lose this end of tunnel, and, ah… and everyone in it."

"Mm-hmmm," was the best Virgil could manage. Getting sort of winded… longer climb than it looked like from underneath… But Brains had the decency to shut up for awhile, and he'd endured worse in pre-season training camp. _(Six years ago.)_

Door, red, marked F-17, with two feet of projecting concrete ledge in front. Virgil was shaking like a Chihuahua by the time he'd hauled himself high enough to unlatch the steel access panel. He felt it, first, because you never knew about fire. Stuff had the _damndest_ way of creeping back through the eaves and between floors, lying in wait to lash out and get you. Door was cool to the touch, though.

So, very gently, making as little noise as possible, Virgil leaned away from the wall ladder, and pushed the red door. He was perched at the side opposite the hinges, able to peep through the space formed, as it swung open. Naturally, Brains picked that precise moment to call in again.

"V- Virgil, I believe that I, ah… I d-did emphasize the need f- for _expedient _action?"

At this point, he was ready to hurl his wrist comm to the distant service tunnel floor. Bonus, if only he could have nailed Hackenbacker at the same time. _Expedient action…? _

Naw… he was sitting here buffing his nails and reading a damn comic book, what else?

Fortunately (for Brains) Virgil didn't have the wind to snap what was blasting through his head, just then. All that came forth was a slightly strangled,

"Uh-_huh_."

The ladder climbed through its tight chimney of a shaft, at the end of which lay a third door, this one accessing the private vehicle deck. Just above that was a very loud, rustily screeching ventilator. Virgil, however, went no higher.

Cautiously, he moved his left foot from ladder to door ledge. Tested it first, from long force of habit; then shifted the rest of his weight, and the other foot. Another gentle nudge pushed the door further open, allowing him to step within. After that… maybe it was stupid, but he was hot and very tired…Virgil shrugged off his fireproof jacket and let it drop to the floor. (Seemed like hours since that coffee break.)

He halted a moment, to look and listen. The freight deck was bigger, with a taller ceiling, weak central lighting strip, and a high stream of oily smoke headed for glory in the nearest ventilation fan. The space was divided into three lanes; two for traffic, one in the middle for emergency access, with lots of _'no_ _passing'_ signs in every conceivable language.

From the Chilean end of the tunnel he heard rumbling cranes and groaning metal. Shouting voices, too… but raised in command, rather than alarm. Other way…? Virgil got his breathing under control, trying to hear past the fans, the heavy equipment, and his own pulse.

Nothing, at first, but then… a furtive scuffing, maybe? From someone who didn't want to be noticed?

Shutting the door behind him, Virgil eased his way forward. He was a hunter and fisherman; he knew how to move softly. A deft movement opened the cover on his holstered pistol. He might not need it, but it seemed best to be prepared.

John (who _defined_ sneaky) might plot a subtler ambush, and Gordon was undeniably a better shot, but Virgil Tracy had merits of his own, chief among them being strength and sheer determination.

_(What about Scott…? He thought too much. There was always that hesitation before pulling the trigger that nine times out of ten ended up getting him in trouble. He was the only person Virgil had ever known who'd actually had a gun shot out of his hand. Twice. World of difference, apparently, between launching a sidewinder, and firing a pistol at close range.) _

A couple of paces forward, staying close to the tunnel wall. Growl of heavy machinery and squealing fans covering his footfalls.

…And there he was, three lanes away, in the shadows at the other side of the freight deck. Middle-aged guy in a business suit, about Gordon's height, but skinnier. He was carrying something… a parcel of some kind…under one arm. Appeared pretty nervous, too, moving in fits and starts, his eyes on the rescue activity ahead. Might as well have been carrying a sign: _up to no good._

On second look, nothing particularly identified him as Red Path, except that he was _here,_ carrying that piece-of-crap kitchen bomb. Just in case, though, Virgil decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Stepping away from the shadowed wall, hand at his holster, he called out,

"Excuse me, Sir! This is a dangerous area! I'll have to ask you to…"

_Dammit!_ The guy whirled (literally jumping off the ground) took one look at Virgil, and began to run. Toward the hole, at first; until Virgil's 'out of the backfield, game-winning touchdown' surge cut him off. _Then_ the guy broke the other way, as though he had any hope at all of escaping a former all-American running back.

Virgil pursued, hurtling concrete lane barriers and gaining on the man, who refused to halt, or to part with his crappy bomb.

_"Stop!"_ Virgil shouted. Almost had him…

There were other voices from behind, now, but he didn't have time to look. Five feet between them…

The noise of their racing footsteps seemed thunderous, awakening echoes from concrete and tile and red-painted doors. The guy swerved, dodging Virgil's first grab, but didn't get away from the second.

Virgil's big hand caught hold of a polyester sleeve, closing tight on harsh cloth and bony shoulder. He yanked the older man around to face him, as they skidded to a halt in the middle of the east-bound lane.

"Hand it… here…. Mister," Virgil panted, taking hold of the parcel. Others were closing in, now, from both ends of the tunnel. "It's over."

But the man (weasel-y looking guy, with sparse, graying hair and a moustache) did not seem especially concerned. Instead of fighting, he gave Virgil a sharp, triumphant glare.

"No, Senor," he hissed. "Not yet, it is not."

Then he crushed his jaws together, hard. Affixed to a back tooth was a glass suicide capsule. Bitten open, it released a mixture of hydrogencyanide gas, which the smiling assassin made sure to cough in Virgil's face, before dying.


	51. Chapter 51: Cyborg

Still editing...

**51: Cyborg**

_Pleistocene Park, Siberia; on a slowly sinking tour bus-_

TinTin whimpered softly, backing away along the steeply tilted aisle. A frigid wind gusted through the open windows, carrying off the last traces of 'knock-out' gas.

At the front of the bus, Alan Tracy lay crumpled in a blood-soaked, muddy heap. Around her were sprawled seventeen unconscious tourists; victims of the gas, and of that which stalked her along the cluttered aisle.

He… _it_… paced her, step for step, pale eyes never leaving the girl's face. Each time the assassin moved through a shaft of wintry sunlight, webs of circuitry shone through his silver-grey irises. The camouflage body suit that he wore shifted and flickered like fire, blending to the new background with every change of position. She was seeing him only because he desired her to. Only because he enjoyed it.

Stirling smiled.

"Thought you wanted quick," he said, not really minding the chance to play.

TinTin couldn't ever recall having been so afraid, nor so very alone with cold, smiling death. The girl tried something, then; crying out with mind and voice as loudly as she had when faced with a rampaging mammoth.

**_"NON! LAISSEZ-MOI TRANQUILLE!"_**

She'd stopped ten tons of furious animal in its tracks that way, and indeed, there was here an effect. A sort of shock wave spread away from her at the speed of a startled nerve impulse. Several passengers grunted and twitched. Poor Alan moaned aloud but could not, not _quite,_ awaken. Outside, snow fell from the branches of a nearby tree, and the newly formed lake ice cracked in half. Within the freezing bus, small items bounced and slithered; the hairs on parkas, heads and stuffed toys whipping about as though stirred by an unseen whirlwind. Struck by a rolling cup, a very young boy began crying in his drugged sleep. And…

Stirling halted, his face momentarily blank. Faint, glowing circuit paths flared through the skin of his face and slim hands. Then, as though she'd flung but a handful of sand, the killer simply shook off the effects of her 'shout' and resumed his leisurely stalking. He seemed proofed against direct mental assault, but what else was there left to try?

"Beautiful _and _strong…" Stirling mused, with a smile that flicked on and off again as if by the press of a switch. "It's always nice when a job turns out to be fun."

Fumbling around with her mind, TinTin seized sacks and parcels and camera parts and hurled them at the advancing predator as hard as she could, but to no effect. Each missile was caught in mid-air, examined and idly tossed aside, for they came with no more speed or force than she'd have cast them physically. He wasn't even slowed.

As if roused by her terror, the bus rocked in its muddy prison, springs and shock absorbers creaking aloud. Unconscious tourists tumbled from their places, thrown about like broken dolls. Pitched suddenly forward, TinTin had to steady herself with a wild grab at the nearest seat back. Stirling merely rode out the chaos, shifting his stance to match the vehicle's every jounce and buck. In the end, thebus succumbed to three more feet of dank mud, and the assassin resumed his quiet advance.

She was nearly to the end of the aisle, now. Praying hard, hating the tears that had begun to slip from her dark eyes, the girl backed a cautious half-step further. A cold, snowy breeze whirled through the door, sighing unintelligibly as it caressed the girl's prickling neck.

Her left boot heel,when she backed that last tiny bit, met nothing but air. It was precisely then that inspiration struck. She required help of a very particular sort, and all at once knew right where to seek it. Perhaps Heaven had heard, and made answer.

At any rate, saying to herself,

_'Distance is nothing but material illusion...'_

TinTin reached out for Fermat Hackenbacker, her youngest friend. There was no distance… there was no time… only the one she so desperately needed.

_Nothing… nothing… something?_

A spark, faint and clouded. Drugged, he was, and injured.

_'Fermat,'_ her mind whispered to his,past the folded membrane they all thought of as space, _'are you able to hear me?'_

_"TinTin…?"_ His spoken response was groggy with bone-deep cold and bewilderment. _"I can't… I'm n- not suppose 'a move or… it'll blow up."_

He was, she suddenly 'saw', caught up in the bare, icy branches of a tall tree, together with Dr. Aginbroad. There was a device attached to the shivering boy; a bomb. Were Fermat to climb down, or call out, the device would explode, killing both prisoners.

TinTin shuddered, less from Fermat's transmitted chill, than the realization that _'it'_ had hung up its prey as a leopard might, meaning to later return.

_'Fermat,' _the girl's thoughts rushed forth, _'can you… feel through me, into the circuit and code of this beast, to destroy it?'_

Somehow, the half-frozen boy collected himself well enough to respond. Not understanding how he could hear his pretty friend, hung by his torn parka like a joint of meat, he nevertheless grasped her intent. She needed help, and there was no-one else who could give it.

_"Like you're a… w-wireless router, you mean? O- Okay, TinTin… I'll try."_

Granted entry, her touch deepened, sinking into a mind that (like Gordon's)did not flinch away, nor question her power. Then, as though slowly waving a giant bubble wand, she… _drew_ him, pulling Fermat's mind over to that of their enemy.

With TinTin functioning as a sort of ethernet, Fermat could see and access, and then write to, the cyborg's source code.

Like leaning into nightmare while clasping hands with an anchoring friend... It was scary and subtle in there, with feedback loops, shifting syntax, self-writing software and an operating system that had long since overwritten the human mind beneath. It was by design a monster; the perfect killer.

But there _were _a few weaknesses, and Fermat swiftly found them. Acquiring 'devices' (/dev/ video… /dev/ audio… /dev/ tactile… /dev/ random) the boy exploited a tiny flaw in their parameter settings to confuse sensory input, feedback and decision making. All he did was extend the sensory 'refresh' time from .0001 to 5 second intervals, in effect giving the cyborg brief, recurring seizures. Then, Fermat seized and scrambled the assassin's object code, as well, causing its movement and action to falter.

He could not, however, shut Stirling down; not entirely. The cybernetic component defended its organics just as the human 'wet-ware' prevented total loss of conscious control. Short of, say… a blast furnace… the thing could neither be turned off, nor killed. Not by Fermat or TinTin, anyhow. The best they could hope for now was to drive the thing off.

Lengthy to discuss, quick to accomplish. Between one fractional instant and the next, Stirling went from reaching for TinTin's throat, to near-fatal error.

His entire aspect changed, horribly. Freezing, jerking and blacking out, with balked energy coursing along its circuits and flaring through his glitching optics, the assassin began silently, swiftly to burn. Its flesh peeled away from the metal beneath. Small cuts opened up; black at the edges, leaking brilliant blue energy and sluggish blood. A noise escaped him, something between the grinding of a stuck disk drive, and a low grunt.

TinTin's hand flew to her mouth, then extended just a bit. He… the human beneath the programming... was writhing in agony _she'd_ caused. Grief and shame and hard, burning anguish filled the girl because, somehow… you might wound a marauding lion, yet still pity its throes. She was a very sweet person, TinTin, unable to turn her back on the pain of another. Even _that_ one. She'd visualized shutting the cyborg down, not tormenting it. Once again she put forth her mind, meaning to provide surcease, forcing herself through darkness, pain and programmingto a bit of the creature beneath. This time, she was not blocked.

What might have been several long minutes passed. Then, from outside the bus came the roaring clatter of heli-jets, severing her fragile, soothing contact. They crested the hills beyond Lake Svetlana in force, seeming to darken the very sky. The Russian Army had arrived, courtesy of Jeff Tracy, in greater than expected numbers.

Blackened hands clutching at a seat back, Stirlingdragged himself upright. His ravaged face turned to regard the advancing heli-jets. Swooping low, the big aircraft kicked up giant blizzards of snow and ice, forming a front that approached the bus in dense, billowing waves. Someone began shouting through a loudspeaker, ordering surrender or cooperation, probably; the girl hadn't enough Russian to say. As the thundering fleet circled for landing, Stirling looked back at TinTin, his head moving in short, jerking spasms to meet her frightened gaze.

His hand shot out between paroxysms, reaching once more for the paralyzed girl. Still in TinTin's mind, Fermat cried a silent warning. But all the cyborg did was to mark her uniform with the same fiery stuff oozing from its split and gaping palm. Perhaps, after all, her impulse had been correct, and accepted.

"First blood…Int….scue," the assassin grated out, apparently returning her gesture. "Look frd…nxt…. Round."

Then Stirling pushed past her, leaping through the door into the wild-swirling white-out beyond.


	52. Chapter 52: Snowbound

**52: Snowbound**

_Pleistocene Park, at the northern end of Lake Svetlana (somewhat earlier)-_

The hover-sled had been attacked. All that Fermat recalled was a sudden explosion of white, as though something enormously powerful had burst from the snow directly beside them. The hover-sled, traveling at least 40 miles per hour, had stopped short; seized with a single, sharp _crack!_ Then it flipped, hurling Fermat and Dr. Aginbroad into a tangled thicket of bare willow.

Everything hurt more, in the cold. He'd had a confused impression of tumbling pale sky and flopping earth, then the raking slash of broken twigs. No sound, though; he heard nothing at all until his own pained...

_"Uhnff!"_

…on strikinga patch offrozen ground.

Fermat didn't recall losing consciousness (too sudden), but certainly noticed the change when he woke again. Sharp snow, abrasive as sandpaper, ground against his face and head. He was being dragged along on his belly by…

Something had hold of his right ankle, painfully tight.

Reflexively, Fermat tried to kick loose, only to have his pinioned ankle nearly shattered. Even through his leather snow-boot Fermat felt the instantaneous, mechanically powerful clamp. But the grip did not belong to an animal. He hadn't felt any teeth.

_Assess the situation…_

There was snow jammed in one ear and all down his bloodied parka. His left eye was swollen shut, his view from the right as blurry as a bad water color. All he saw was light and shade, blinding snow, blue tree-shadows and a dark form that might have been Dr. Aginbroad, towed alongside.

No. Not an animal. The pull was too smooth… no stops, no snuffs, grunts or nudging. A person, then; one who might be reasoned with.

"Hey…" Fermat called, although it actually came out more like, "Hhhh…"

A viciously sharp jerk ended that experiment, filling his mouth and nostrils with snow. His hands weren't tied, but they weren't doing him any good, either, just clutching ineffectually at roots and passing outcrops with a newborn's feeble grip. He was going weirdlynumb, like he'd been drugged, or something.

They bumped a few hundred yards further. Then Fermat was released, dumped on his back in the snow at the base of a tree. Its half-glimpsed branches formed a pattern of dark, moving cracks against the sky.

He heard noises; scuffing, and the creak of over-burdened limbs. Snow was shaken down from above. Some of it fell on his face, choking off the boy's breath, but a weak head-toss knocked it away.

_Come up with a plan of action…_

His captor wouldn't talk. Escape seemed impossible, given that he couldn't seem to sit up. The wrist comm, maybe…?

One hand flopped across the boy's body and found the other. His gloved fingers were stiff and unwieldy, but very familiar with the location of the International Rescue communicator; always on his left arm.

He felt about, probing beneath parka sleeve and padded glove, but the wrist comm was missing. Something heavy landed in the snow beside him before Fermat could decide what to do next. Another shadow blocked the sky, briefly, about the size and shape of a man's head.

"Ex- excuse me…Sir," Fermat began.

_"Quiet."_

The voice wasn't angry or loud, but its passionless force nevertheless shut the boy up. He was hauled off the ground in a single, powerful move. And then, using one hand and his legs, the man (?) began to climb.

High into the tree he carried Fermat, surging upward with a speed and ease that most men couldn't have managed unburdened. Up where the wind and ice nested, where the branches were dangerously thin, the boy was left.

The man jerked or slashed a hole in the back of Fermat's parka, providing a means to suspend him. The boy moved his feet, but there was nothing near enough to rest upon, or grab for support.

A few minutes' further work on his captor's part got some kind of heavy belt wrapped around the boy's waist.

"W- Why are you…?"

Rough hands tightened the belt with a quick jerk, then made a further adjustment out of Fermat's view.

"Listen," that cold voice issued from the retreating, shadowy figure, "because your life depends on it. This is a bomb. Try to climb down or call for help, and it blows you and Dr. Doolittle across the lake. In pieces."

Relieved to hear of the zookeeper, Fermat ignored the threat. Hefound himself asking,

"Dr. Aginbroad? Is… h- he okay?"

At first, only the wind responded. Then the half-seen man seemed to smile (at any rate, the tone of his voice changed).

"Stay nice and still, Kid, and maybe you'll find out. Meanwhile, I've got work to do. See you."

He was gone before Fermat could ask any more questions, dropping from the tree rather than climbing down. After that, for a long time, there was only cold and wind and bony, rasping branches. Once or twice he whispered,

"Dr. Aginbroad? S- Sir…?"

There might have been a delirious mumble by way of reply, but Fermat couldn't be sure, and didn't dare raise his voice for a louder call.

He still couldn't see well, and cold was creeping inside, as wary-curious as the dark birds which had begun fluttering up to perch and watch and wait. Company of sorts.

Because poetry came as naturally to him as math, Fermat gave the croaking flock a bit of chilly, misquoted Stevenson:

"_Under the wide and starry sky_

_dig the grave and let me lie;_

_glad did I live and proudly die,_

_and I lay me down with a will…_

_Home is the sailor, home from the sea;_

_and the hunter home from the hill."_

Not so glad, nor so close to home that he missed TinTin's searching-soft voice, though. _Never_ that far gone. A rapid query, a hurried explanation, and together they set to work putting a killer out of business.

For the moment, at least.


	53. Chapter 53: Mail

**53: Mail**

_Mt. Everest, the North Face, beneath a soap-bubble dome of shimmering force, and a rapidly gathering storm-_

Speed was critical, because the force shield, at so wide a setting, drew enormous torrents of power, straining even Thunderbird 1's capacity. Yet, Scott dared not shut the thing off; not with confirmed hostiles in the vicinity.

All he could do was work faster, and make sure that Gordon did the same. His brother returned to the crashed commuter jet, providing whatever he could in the way of rapid, on-site medical care. A dozen trauma patches would be applied, their advanced medicines and nano-surgical capabilities saving many people who would otherwise have perished.

Gordon treated victims presenting with fractured limbs, pulmonary edema, head trauma, internal bleedingand shock. It was Scott's task to keep those victims safe from further attack, and to arrange a way to get them aboard Thunderbird 1. Unfortunately, steep, shifting slopes, freezing weather and high winds made a poor combination with desperately injured people.

There were the grav-carts, of course, but each required two men for safe handling. Worse, they were apt to malfunction over extremely rough, discontinuous terrain. ...And he still had aflight data recorder to somehow retrieve.

Back at the cockpit, Scott called in to Island Base, letting his father know that there'd been trouble, but deliberately playing it down. No sense worrying the folks back home.

"…Nothing we can't handle, Dad. That's what Brains outfitted these craft with shields for."

Over the comm screen, Jeff Tracy nodded distractedly. Muttering something about Hackenbacker and a bomb, he shifted his gaze to another screen feed.

"FAB, Son… just got word back from Lhasa that the attempted rescue flight to base camp was a bust. They lost a heli-jet on approach, and the other had to rescue its crew with a basket and winch, then return to the launch pad. The Chinese are still en route, though, and… _Damn!" _He snarled suddenly, leaning halfway out of sight to aggressively flip switches.

"We've lost Fermat's comm signal! _What the hell's going on out there?_ Scott, I'll have to get back to you. Conclude rescue operations, and get to Siberia, ASAP. Tracy, out."

"Yes…"

The comm channel shut off, its screen switching abruptly to a field of snowy static.

"…Sir," Scott replied to a humming and clicking cockpit. Battery power was close to red-lining, he noticed;not a good sign.

Okay, focus… Back to the problem at hand: how to get those wounded people down 213 yards of foul-tempered mountainside, without killing allthem in the process.

Cindy called before he'd come up with anything bright and original. If he'd been in any doubt before, Scott concluded then that she cared, for the usually flinty reporter seemed genuinely, deeply concerned.

"Hey, Hollywood," she said to him, wiping away her heavy studio makeup in the back of a network van.

"Don't guess I need to remind you that this is one of those _'slam-bam,_ _thank-you, Ma'am', _kind of… in-and-out… things? The weather reports don't look so good, Fella. Get your people and go, would be my suggestion."

"Working on it, Hon. Transport's the issue, right now."

_Just 200 damn yards… _but in deep-freeze conditions, on a nearly vertical grade.

"Heard anything from the other locations? Siberia, for instance?"

(Dad's continuing silence couldn't be a good thing.)

His fiancée shook her head.

"Afraid not, besides a short blurb on the AP science report, that is. Mammoths make good headlines on slower news days than this one, Fella. But I've got something _else_ for you: guess he doesn't realize it, but Gordon's broadcasting live. Someone up there's got a cell phone, webcasting away to the Bengalese affiliate. It's being picked up all over the damn place, as breaking news."

_"Shit."_ Scott reached for his wrist comm, adding, "Thanks, Hon. I'll let him know, and then block all out-bound frequencies. We'll be out of touch for awhile, but it's just a security measure."

Cindy nodded slowly. Oddly enough, even with no makeup and mussed dark hair, eyes a little red-rimmed, she still looked good to Scott. Must be serious.

"Yeah. I'll be around, whenever you get a chance to catch me up. Love you."

"Same here, Hon. Talk to you later."

And then he signed off, discovering anewthat having a woman waiting on you, worrying whether you'd make it safely home or not, complicated matters immensely. He hurt for _her_, more than worried about himself… and still had a job to do.

_"Gordon!"_ Scott snapped over the comm, more angrily than he'd meant to, "wake up and keep a damn eye on your surroundings, Mister! You've got a live camera in there!"

The response was hurried, the view that of someone's lacerated torso, rather than Gordon's air-masked face.

"Right… terribly sorry, Scott. Bit of a mess here, just now."

No doubt. Feeling bad about having yelled (when the reason satellite relay had been enabled in the first place was so he could keep talking to Cindy), Scott blocked the out-bound frequencies. Then he said,

"No problem. You're clear. Let me know when you've got those people ready for transport, and I'll send you stage two of the game plan. _Out._"

Gordon was too busy to reply, or else too embarrassed. Trying to think, Scott tapped a nervous, hyperactive rhythm against the instrument panel, then threw himself into his seat. He locked his hands behind his head, staring at the overhead as though good ideas were printed there fresh, and updated daily.

All of a sudden, he thought: _John._ And then, _'Why the hell not?'_

Couldn't hurt to try…

Resetting the long-range comm to access NASA's InterPlanet (on a channel his brother had installed and encrypted in earlier, better times), Scott typed out,

_'Hey, little brother. Got a minute?'_

Before the fighter pilot could brace himself for failure, something very large arrived. A huge chunk of emailed data; what looked like several weeks' worth of responses, compacted so tightly as to all but choke his Bird's computers.

"What the hell…?"

Scott spent the next few minutes unzipping the massive file, which looked like the damn Library of Congress rolled into a marble. The instant it came available, he opened the first entry.

_'Find myself with a little free time, yeah. What seems to be the major malfunction?'_

There were over 137 more entries. Bemused, Scott started to open the next, but hesitated, checked by a sudden thought. What if…? Suppose these were answers? Replies to transmissions Scott hadn't even made yet, somehow accelerated through time? He was ready to swear he'd heard Dad mention some kind of 'temporal anomaly', a sort of lag between _Endurance _and Earth.

So… if he opened one without having first sent his _own_ message, what would happen to John's responses? Lost? Rewritten? 'Paradoxed' out of existence? Better not to risk it, maybe.

Scott wrote,

_'Need consult on getting 15 injured plane crash survivors off Mt. Everest and onto 1, in shit-poor weather. Time-critical scenario: force shield up, avalanche conditions, under threat of continued attack. View satellite photo throughrepaired 'eyes'. And how're you doing, out there?'_

Now, he opened the next message, which was labeled simply, _Re: S.A._ (Scott Aaron, John's usual, unimaginative method for coding his older brother's identity.)

_'If too hurt to walk, consider reconfig of F.S. to create a covered ramp from crash site to 1. Input following algorithms to generatorthen reset system parameters.'_

There followed a chunk of equations that Scott began typing in at once. Below that, written up as though it hardly mattered, was the reply to his second question.

_'Been better, actually. Radiation issues, but shut up about it. This is need-to-know, and **no-one else** needs to know. We'll talk more at end of watch.'_

Scott halted as though punched, having to reenter those last two figures. Radiation? But…

_'When did that happen?' _He pounded out.

Four days ago, during the official 'family call' from Mars, his brother had seemed just fine. (Or, as fine as he ever got.) Scott opened the next message, gathering that his own were trickling in about as speedily as warm asphalt poured.

_'2 weeks, huh? Time lag's a bitch, this month. Spacewalk went bad on us, basically. Lots of stuff, Scott. No-one else having much success with the comm, so give Houston the following updates, please.' _

A block of data filled the screen, pertaining, Scott guessed, to _Endurance._ He'd pass it on as quickly as possible, but his first concern was for John's condition. Didn't radiation lead to cancer? If his brother was somehow experiencing more 'time under the bridge' than his family back on Earth… would he get home soon enough to receive treatment?

_'How are you holding up?' _He replied, after hitting the shield generator's reset key. Although he didn't understand most of the equations he'd just entered, Scott trusted his brother. Missed him, too, though he didn't know how to go about saying anything so personal.

So he added, before sending this last bit,

_'How are the little woman and John, Jr.? You warming up to fatherhood?'_

The shield flashed, seen through his view screen, and then seemed to peel apart, like two curved sections of an onion. Responding to its new settings, the generator produced what looked like a sloping, curved tube inside the now weakened dome.

This newer construct extended over deep snow and splintered shale, from Thunderbird 1's storage compartment to about two feet below the crashed plane. It sparked in the cloudy half-light, running with sinuous color and scintillant power, softly illuminating the rock beneath. Air might get through those curving, mathematically woven barriers, but not wind. Bingo.

Scott sighed. Shaking with relieved tension, he switched to wrist comm again and called out,

"Gordon, courtesy of a mutual friend, we've got ourselves an on-ramp. Soon as they're in shape to travel, give me a heads-up, then harness and lower them through the force tube, one at a time. Clear?"

"FAB, Scott." Gordon sounded rather quiet, still. The pilot recognized that tone of voice; it was his younger brother's _"I'm about to lose one"_ sound.

"Be just a bit longer, though."

"Okay. Do what you can, and keep me posted. The storage compartment's ready to go, so you can ride back with your patients, if necessary. Good luck."

"Right." The swimmer didn't sound very positive. Then again… seventeen years old and already facing an adult's life-or-death responsibilities… maybe he had a hard time keeping perspective on things. Have to sit down and talk with him, sometime soon, Scott decided... tell him what a good job he was doing.

Now, though, after scanning the perimeter, Scott simply opened the next email.

'_Sorry to take so long replying. Usually check for a message every few weeks, but the supply transfer from Kuiper threw my schedule off. Thanks for getting in touch with JSC for us. Couldn't have coordinated the pass off without your information. Weird message from Lady P this morning, something happening underground that she doesn't like, but couldn't talk about. Suggest you follow up.'_

And then,

'_Wasn't aware you knew about Junior. Were planning surgery before, but couldn't risk another medical complication at this time. Too many down, already. Otherwise proceeding as expected on all fronts and due pretty soon. I'm good. The woman isn't little (any more). Dr. Bennett is too big for her old clothing, so we've reverse-engineered a maternity uniform and are now working out the specs on a prototype diaper. More real-world space program dividends. Talk to you again in a few weeks.'_

Scott could think of several dozen questions, each more confused than the last. The baby was expected so soon? How great a time anomaly _were_ they experiencing, and why? More importantly, how old would everyone be when _Endurance _finally returned to Earth? 'Too many down already'? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Who, exactly, was 'down'?

But Gordon interrupted before Scott could begin asking, calling in with the news that his crash survivors were ready for transfer. Scott forced himself back to the present with an irritated head shake. He'd just have to read the other messages later; on the way to Siberia, maybe.

Rising from the pilot's seat, Scott headed aft to receive incoming victims, still musing on what he'd learned. Just possibly, with a generous helping of cleverness and luck, they'd see this thing through; survive yet another storm with flags flying and cargo intact. If all went well, in a few weeks time they'd gather to celebrate the safe return of a long-absent brother and the welcome arrival of a brand new Tracy. Just maybe…


	54. Chapter 54: Trouble and Love

Yet more freshly edited, still.

**54: Trouble and Love**

_Chile__, the Trans-Andean Tunnel; freight deck-_

Someone had driven a pick-axe into his chest. That first sharp gasp, prelude to shouting, _"Wait!"_ brought immediate, clutching agony.

The bomber was already dead, his face contorted and purple. Virgil dropped him and reeled sideways, colliding with a concrete lane divider. His wrist comm went off; _Alan._ Virgil tried to answer, but his mouth and throat felt burned-raw and swollen closed, drenched all over with the stench of bitter almonds. All he could do was cough.

_Cyanide…_

He couldn't breathe, was barely able to think, just managing to pull his belt pack open before the world began crumbling away at the edges. But Virgil Tracy had been followed down the service tunnel and up the access shaft by a pair of quick-thinking firemen.

The freight tunnel was by now a chaos of running footsteps and shouting voices, of police units and bomb removal teams. Ignacio Velez and Juan De la Pays focused through it all on their badly poisoned friend.

Velez used his own air tanks and smoke hood to deliver oxygen to the convulsing victim. Had to be careful, too, because Virgil was a big young man, and very strong. One of those flailing fists might easily have put _either_ fireman on the ground. They managed, however; Velez talking calmly and restrainingthe victim as his partner went to work.

De la Pays dug into the IR medical pack until he located Virgil's Cyanokit. Being firemen, they recognized his symptoms at once, for many things that burned produced toxic carbon monoxide and cyanide gas. They knew what was happening, and exactly how to respond.

De la Pays swiftly drew forth and tore open a red packet, then snapped the safety cap from the hypodermic needle he found within. Velez had gotten the North American's uniform sleeve ripped away. De la Pays found and probed a good blood vessel, gave the needle a quick shake, then injected a life-saving dose of _hydroxocobalamine._ Into the bloodstream the drug arced, like water sprayed on a building fire, bonding with free cyanide and converting it to harmless vitamin B. Worked like a hundred Holy Rosaries, if you got it in quickly enough…

Not ten feet away, an explosives disposal squad was hard at work setting up barriers around a shoe-box sized device. Jets of Tracy Aerospace dampening foam came next, to isolate and contain the potential blast. Unsure of the bomb's power, they weren't taking any chances. Next, using a specially-armored vehicle, they'd remove the Red Path explosive for remote detonation.

The firemen noticed all this (bomb squads in action are pretty tough to miss) but they didn't move. Their victim hadn't stabilized, yet, and a further dose might be required.

Naturally, the disposal men thought otherwise. Their already tense mood soured further when yet _another_ foreign rescuer hurried up, panting audibly through his air-mask. Skinny fellow. Didn't appear to be in very good shape, either, having fallen once while trying to scale a highway divider. In fact, except for the blue International Rescue uniform and bobbing grav-cart, De la Pays would have labeled him a strayed governmental damage assessor, someone more accustomed to bean-counting than field work.

"Th- thank… you, G- Gentlemen," the newly arrived rescuer told them. "I c- can… take it… f- from here."

The Chilean firemen looked at one another. Sighed Velez,

"Dios mio! Es 'Rescue _Internacional',_ no? Huberia pensado que alguien puede hablar Espanol!"

_('My God! It's 'International Rescue', right? You'd think someone there could speak Spanish!') _

De la Pays gave him a frank, amused grin (their patient was coming around now, making his weak first efforts to sit up).

"Ya lo creo, Che."

_('That's for sure.')_

Virgil massaged a thudding headache between both hands. Not quite exact enough to say that he felt bad. More like… a split and battered tackling dummy, or the very lowest note on a pipe organ. He'd felt worse only once in his life, and that had been the Hood's doing, back in Macedonia.

Didn't help a bit that everyone around him seemed to be arguing, and mostly in the loudest possible Spanish.

"A quien- Vaquero…?" De la Pays was repeating, incredulously.

_"Hacken- backer!"_ The engineer corrected, elbowing his way past the two firemen, with his blue eyes fixed upon the floor. He hated meeting new people.

"If y- you'll help, ah… help me g- get my, ah… my f- friend onto the grav-cart, we… _On… the… cart!"_

(With accompanying, impatient gestures.)

"…We c- can, ah… can depart th- the premises and allow the, ah… the bomb unit and police t- to do their jobs."

Not that there was much left to be done; here, at least. Chilean police detectives had already photographed and removed the dead man. Virgil would have liked to find out more about him: Who was he? Why had he joined the Red Path? What could possibly drive somebody to undertake such a desperate suicide mission? And, most importantly, who'd sent him out here? Who controlled the Red Path?

As Virgil was helped onto the grav-cart (first shaking with nervous energy, then so weak and exhausted that he felt ready to pour off the cart like pancake batter) he recalled something. Seizing De La Pay's heavy coat sleeve, the pilot rasped,

"Sorry… don't speak much Spanish… but thanks, both of you. When we came… destroyed things. Cars… stuff. Get me… list? How much? I'll pay back. And the girl, find out about… the girl."

That his job was half done rankled deeply. He didn't like it, didn't want to admit it, but Virgil Tracy was out of the fight; lucky to be alive, much less rescuing anyone else. De la Pays seemed to understand, though, giving hisYanqui friend a nod, and a bracing pat. Virgil would get his list.

The bouncing, swaying grav-cart floated like a twig amid flashing lights, swirling smoke and grumbling machinery. The trip ended at last in dense, troubled sleep, peppered with dreams of folded metal and purple-faced assassins. He wouldn't wake again for hours. Not until the bomb had been disposed of, the last victims pulled free, and Thunderbird 2 at last lifted off.

Virgil woke to an oxygen mask and an IV drip, lying on one of the many pull-down cots that lined his Bird's crew cabin. Heavy nylon straps held him in place, but he wasn't uncomfortable. The dim lighting, machine oil smell and muted vibration were too familiar for that.

One thing did stand out, though. There was a folded note tucked into one of his upper uniform pockets. Looked like a printed list, but Virgil was too tightly secured to reach the neatly-creased paper and make sure. He was ready to wager that Juan De la Pays had come through, though. Potential operative material there, definitely.

As Virgil gathered his thoughts and his strength, he began wondering about the others. How had Scott and Gordon fared in the Himalayas? And the kids in Siberia? Remembering Alan's last contact and the Red Path bombing attempt, Virgil hoped that his bothers hadn't run into similar trouble. But, what was it that Hackenbacker had told him…?

_'It is axiomatic that not only can things go wrong… they almost certainly will.'_

That was Brains, for you: ever the optimist.

"Just have to prove you wrong, pal," Virgil decided, as Thunderbird 2 flew on across the chilly Pacific, away from the rising sun. "It isn't over till you quit, and nobody here's giving up."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_One week earlier, 9:30 PM, Secaucus, NJ-_

Autumn Drew was, perhaps, of no particular significance to most people. A loan officer at the Meadowlands Parkway InterBank, she dressed conservatively, spoke quietly, and kept to herself.

In appearance she was above average, without being the sort of young woman who turned heads. In fact, she actively avoided that possibility by wearing very little makeup and mostly neutral clothing.

_(This hadn't always been so. There had been a time when Autumn Drew dressed to shock, with extravagant piercings, ghostly makeup and harshly dyed hair… but that had been another Drew, living a very different life.) _

Her hair was red-gold now,rather than black, and her eyes were her own natural light-brown. She had a few freckles, which she no longer troubled to hide. What difference did it make?

Her job was fairly tedious, but cubicles, potted plants and endless data-shuffling gave one a layer of insulation. Of safety.

She'd been involved in other things, once, with other people. All over now, of course, but part of her still groped for the past. Beneath all the self-imposed stillness, Drew was like a torn sheet of paper; ragged on one edge, and miserably incomplete.

It wasn't just the excitement she missed, or the ready funds (long gone). It was the sense of control. The feeling that she darted through streams of data without a trace, adjusting what she would, taking what she wanted, never getting caught nor even detected. Total, heady, chaotic freedom… with John.

Preparing to leave her cubicle, Autumn Drew shut down the computer monitor (not the entire system- that belonged to InterBank, ran Windows and was determinedly, boringly secure. Like Drew, herself, these days).

She spoke a few polite words to her straggling ivy plant, watered it with a little cold coffee from her last cup, and then pushed her rolling chair back into place beneath the desk. Next, the girl adjusted her mouse pad and the faked picture of a non-existent boyfriend. As always, Drew wished 'Boris' good-night (she'd downloaded the image off an internet travel site. He was just good looking enough to win approval without arousing too many questions).

Then, she walked out; passing grey walls, blue carpeting and wavy glass bricks. A blue-and-gold neon InterBank logo dominated the far wall. With everyone gone but a shuffling janitor, Drew could actually hear its quiet, self-satisfied hum.

Ever work someplace you hated? For so long that you could actually feel yourself calcifying, bit by cold, hard, bit?

Autumn Drew had been dying in slow pieces for years, surrounded by commerce, piped-in music and fluorescent lighting. The best she could say was that she'd outlived a succession of unfortunate, over-caffeinated plants, and that… so far… she hadn't gone crazy, nor overreacted to all ofthose sudden hacks.

Out through the echoing, flagstoned lobby, now, and over to the sleekly burnished elevators. She took her favorite, the third from left, pressing the call button five times and waiting in silence for the car to arrive.

Somewhere nearby, one of the janitors was running a vacuum cleaner. The noise was rhythmic and soothing: soft-LOUD-soft-LOUD. And it made her wonder about the lives of cleaning ladies. Were they happy? Was this lifetime of nocturnal scurrying what they'd expected, back when?

The elevator car arrived, announcing itself with a single, bright chime. Bronze doors swished open, andan empty young woman stepped within. But those emails and exploits…

Messages were one thing. Messages addressed to _'Anarchick'_ were quite a dangerous other. Even worse, exploits supposedly designed by her, for _that_ was a name and persona with a stake through its shattered heart.

At first… She'd opened the first message because being reminded sent a rush of fire through her, deep as love and hot as pain. It wasn't from Tracy, though, or any of the others, either. Not Denice or Rick or their jack-ass former 'handler'. Not even the FBI. No-one she knew… and that was scary enough that she'd sent a message of her own. Driven by panic, loneliness, boredom and regret… whatever. She'd contacted him, only to be met with…

_'Thanks. Will follow up.'_

…And nothing else. Drew was perfectly aware that John Tracy had changed. He worked for NASA, now, and was headed for fame and respectability on Mars, past forgotten. But, he might have said something more… asked how she was doing, maybe.

The elevator car dropped two storeys, past the machine level and down to a concrete and steel garage. Another chime, and then its doors opened with a faint sigh, revealing a columned grey cavern containing more fumes and oil- stains than actual cars. A few box-like sedans and electric hybrids waited here and about, her own white Sentra among them.

Misery and remembrance. Drew walked toward her car, drifting past the ghostworld of her current life, toward the risk and reality, the buried joy of her old one.

One time, she'd returned to the dorm with lunch (a few cans of cheese ravioli, to be doused with Tabasco sauce and then microwaved to raging life). John sat inside at his work station, slim left hand on the cyberlink, eyes locked to the flickering screen. His body was right where she'd left it. His mind might be anywhere at all.

She set her bag down and crossed the dark, tidy room to Tracy. In the monitor-glow he seemed even paler than usual, blond hair falling over his face, blue-violet eyes wide and unseeing.

She reached a hand out, pushed the longish hair away, and began rubbing the back of his neck. It was best to give John a warning, before disconnecting him from the cyberlink, especially after three longhours 'inside'.

A flurry of small kisses to the side of Tracy's face, and then she put her hand on his, and removed it from the link. He blinked, back in the real world again and terribly confused.

Perching upon the arm of his chair, Drew leaned forward and pulled him against her. He rested there for a bit, curtained by dead-black hair. She would open the window blinds in a minute, but it was wiser to reintroduce sensations a few at a time, and very well spaced.

"Rise and shine, Loser," she told him at last, "and welcome to reality. Out here, you're John Tracy. This is your dorm, and I'm your highly illegal roommate. P.S., you have a tensor calc exam coming up in two-and-a-half hours that you probably ought to show up for; makes the professors all fuzzy inside. Now, go to the rest room while I fix lunch… but next time, Tracy, _you_ get to do the shopping, and _I'll_ go in."

He stirred against her and looked up as though wanting to comment, but didn't say anything. Drew sighed.

"You can't just think at me here, Tracy. You… have… to … move… your … mouth. Get it? _Speak_, in words. And (just a hint) but a bathroom door isn't going to pop open in midair just because you imagine a few lines of code. You have to physically move yourself _to_ _it._ Like this, c'mon."

_Went through this every time!_ She'd never known anyone else to immerse themselves so deeply in the networked universe that they forgot how to function in the real one.

Standing (after a playful bite to his neck) she took his hands and pulled John Tracy to his feet, whereupon a slow, cramped body had to reacquaint itself with the laws of physics. After a moment, he squeezed her hands, saying,

"Thanks. I'm good." Voice was a little rusty…

Drew squeezed back, then let go and went to the room's small refrigerator. Robbed of the tactile cue, John almost fell, but caught himself with a hand to the computer desk. Drew hurried back over to give him a newly-opened energy drink, with a sarcastic description of its proper insertion point.

"Get much done in there?" The girl inquired, watching while he drank, choked, figured it out, and then finished off his caffeine-delivery system.

Despite her warning, John _did_ stare at the bathroom door; trying to code it closer, or open another.

"Damn," he muttered, when nothing happened. "I hate walking."

Drew shook her head; fond, exasperated, in love.

"Yeah, well, it's good for you, hyper-geek, and you never answered my question."

He shrugged, starting forward.

"Did some exploring. There's something weird developing at the interface betweenSecond Lifeand Quicken. A new site, looks like. Nobody's coding it. It's just… happening. I dunno.Worth looking into, maybe."

Wickedly, Drew opened the window blinds, sending horizontal slices of clear afternoon light slashing through his dark haven. Once he'd recovered enough to stop cursing, John strode for the bathroom.

("Wrong door, Brainiac. And watch out for all the cold-boxes and that new router. Last time, you shorted out half the hot spots on campus.")

He was a changed man a few minutes later. The caffeine had set in, for one thing, and he'd had a chance to wash up. At that point, Drew really meant to start the ravioli, but Tracy had other ideas. He _was_ hungry (couldn't actually recall when he'd eaten last) but there were more important things than lunch.

He looked good and moved better, all enthusiasm and raw talent; and lunch, needless to say, was forgotten. Exams, too.

Funny… She'd assumed, back then, that happiness implied permanence. That they'd somehow never be caught, or parted.

…But she nevertheless came to herself in a cold parking garage, standing by a white car beneath dim fluorescent lights. How long she'd stood there, keys in hand, staring forlornly into the past, Autumn Drew had no idea. But it was late, she was tired, and old bruises could always be covered.

A button-press unlocked the Sentra. Drew opened the door, tossed her purse onto the passenger seat, and swiveled herself on in. Key in the ignition, followed by humming engine and friendly start-up chimes. She slammed the door shut, settling into the sort of small, tidy, controllable world she liked best.

Glanced at the rear-view mirror, where, for just a moment, something dark was caught in the flash of her red brake lights. Gone again, though, before she could identify it. A benighted co-worker, maybe?Late for an all-importantsocial event?

Whatever, he was no longer blocking her path. Putting the Sentra in reverse, Drew eased off the brake pedal and began backing out of her 'employee of the month' parking space.

There was a necklace of silvery Mardi Gras beads hanging from the rear-view mirror. When the Sentra stopped short, caught suddenly from behind, the beads swung violently back and forth, slapping the windshield glass. For some reason, that's what she focused on.

Automatically, Drew floored the accelerator. The wheels whined and spun, but her car did not move. Not backward, anyhow. Instead, it began to tilt, rising as though something was lifting the vehicle's rear.

Some_one._

Drew's head snapped around. There was a dark-haired man visible through the rear window, bathed in crimson tail lights. Her hand went immediately to the dashboard glove compartment, whereshe kept a ceramic pistol.

Spotting her movement, the man straightened his legs, then shoved upward with both inhumanly powerful arms. Springs squeaking, metal crunching and squealing, the car was pushed onto its nose. The front grill and bumper smashed against a concrete wheel stop. In a shower of sparks, of shattering glass, the Sentra was hurled completely over, landing upside-down with a shrill, grinding crash. Security alarms blared once, then choked off as though shot. The man vanished.

Breathing hard, Drew fought to release her seat belt, which was now slicing into her flesh as she hung. There was pain from a deeply gashed forehead and wrenched back, but she had to get free, reach her gun and cell phone. Drew's attention jumped nervously from the swinging beads and crazy-cracked glass, to the hissing steam and battery acid. Where…?

Something moved. A sudden, pale-eyed face stared at her through the driver's-side window. She screamed for the first time when he reached for her, smiling through broken glass.


	55. Chapter 55: Ice Box

Thanks, Agent Five, Eternal Density and Tikatu!

**Chapter 55: Ice Box**

_Pleistocene Park, Siberia, a deeply mired tour bus-_

At one and the same time, TinTin ran along the tilted center aisle, and strengthened her link to Fermat. Both Alan and the young genius needed her help, and both situations were critical.

Scooping up her med-kit, TinTin hurried past seventeen coughing, groggy tourists. _(Their bodies roused faster than their minds; all but the children recovering rapidly now that the wind had carried away most of that insidiously seeping gas.)_

At the muddy front, TinTin found a bit of space to kneel beside Alan and the half-conscious driver.

Ordinarily, she'd have dealt first with the civilian victims, but her friend was clearly in greater need. He'd sustained a violent, glass-peppered skull fracture, and had yet to fully open his eyes or call out.

Cold air nibbled and probed; there, and at the other end of Lake Svetlana. TinTin reached into her med-kit, and searched anew for Fermat.

_'The bombe,' _she queried the younger boy, _'are you able to defuse her, if I can provide the… the wireless channel to you?'_

TinTin made sure not to move Alan's head, beyond very gently easing it back into the neutral, midline position. He was so badly hurt…! Behind her, someone's baby had started crying. Overhead, a circling heli-jet bawled commands and searched for a place to land. In her tired mind, Fermat whispered back,

_"Yes, TinTin. If you… c-could guide me in- inside… the bomb's hardware, I believe I… c-could shut it down."_

Once again, the young boy refrained from asking how she was able to speak with him this way, when at least two miles of iced-over lake and freezing mud separated them.

TinTin cleared a spot on Alan's neck, wiping it clean with stinging disinfectant before applying one of her precious trauma patches. The right side of his poor head was a bloodied mess, and he breathed hardly at all. His sky-blue eyes were nearly shut, but the swollen lids failed to conceal a left pupil that was very much larger than its mate.

The heli-jet landed, stirring up so much snow and shrieking wind that her makeshift hospital might have stood upon an ice flow in the midst of the Drake Passage. Nevertheless, TinTin soldiered on, magicking concentration out of exhaustion and dread. It hadn't returned, the cyborg, and she began to feel hope that it was entirely gone.

So much to do… TinTin reached along the mass illusion that was space and, guided by Fermat's perceptions, drifted 'into' the bomb. There were wires, sensors and computer chips there; each substance and structure having its own peculiar feel. Not of color, texture or temperature. Instead, what her mind sensed was a sort of jumbled size, position, density and power level. The separate bits and their connections vibrated in the hollow of her mental grasp like a dragonfly she'd snatched from the air. It was a wondrous thing to behold, especially with Fermat as interpreter.

He moved within her scaffolding thoughts like a child in a playground climbing-frame. Just as he had when given access to the cyborg's internals, Fermat felt around, trying to understand what he 'saw'.

Much as a perfectly ordinary object… a pocket calculator, say… might elude comprehension if felt in the dark with gloved hands, the bomb's inner workings seemed odd now to Fermat. It took a moment for the boy to regain his bearings; to figure out what he was 'seeing'.

_(It added not one bit to Fermat's clarity of purpose that he and Dr. Aginbroad were hanging from a bare tree, as tightly secured as a spider's next meal.)_

Once he'd adjusted, though, and the fumbled-over shapes matched a few memorized circuit diagrams, Fermat hit upon a plan. Never mind the explosive itself, attack its triggers. While TinTin, in some part of his perception, was rushing to the back of the bus again, greeting a heavily-armed Russian Army captain, Fermat cut off the explosive belt's motion and sound sensors. Then he directed a bit of TinTin's power to disconnect the battery. Thus…

…No signal, no charge and (hopefully) no '_Boom_'.

Meanwhile, TinTin was trying to speak with the young captain, but having very little success. Fermat blushed at her quiet assessment of the strapping fellow, and had not much to offer in the way of help. His own command of Russian ended with _da, nyet, spasibo, tovarisch _and _dosvidanya._

So, he tested his handiwork instead, leaving TinTin and her Slavic Adonis in peace. (But on future missions, he definitely recommended bringing along some translation software.) Clearing his throat a bit, the boy said aloud,

"D-Dr. Aginbroad? Are y-you… all right, S- Sir?"

Nothing exploded, though for an instant Fermat's eyes screwed shut and his abdominal muscles clenched so hard that the explosive belt nearly slipped off. A weak and bewildered voice from another side of the tree said…

"Young man… is that you? _How…?_ What became of our transport?"

Fermat's face was too numb and swollen to manage much of a smile, but he tried, anyway.

"Y- Yes, Sir. It's… m-me. The hover sled is… I th- think, destroyed. B-But m-my friend has… d-driven off our attacker and… w-we're still alive, Sir."

Unlike poor Dr. Andropov, who both of them suddenly remembered.

"My young friend," said Dr. Aginbroad, a quiet moment or two later, "let us descend, flag down some help, and corral Sergei's mammoth herd before the Army decides to carve steaks. Least we can do, for a respected colleague…"

Fermat nodded in the face of biting wind and toothy cold. _'Respected colleague'_ made him think of his mother, for she sometimes called him that. All of a sudden, the boy felt _extremely_ ten years old. He shivered, partly from hypothermia, partly from needing his _own_ respected colleagues.

"Y- Yes, Sir. They'll… be safely brought in. Th-that's what… International Rescue came here to e-ensure, and w- we won't leave until th-the… job is completed, Sir."

There followed a few rustling sounds… Dr. Aginbroad pulling himself free, perhaps… and a quiet reply.

"You have our thanks, young man; my own, and, as I'm sure he'd add if he were able, Sergei's."

Together, Fermat Hackenbacker and Dr. Larry Aginbroad worked loose of their bonds, then climbed down from their gnarled and barren tree.

As for TinTin, the girl's stammering confusion in the face of military bearing (with a square jaw and bright blue eyes, no less) led her to try something even more desperate. She attempted to reach John Tracy.

_'There is no distance…'_ she told herself, and almost had something. The briefest strange contact,silent and disorienting. The 'image' was multiple, as though in reaching so widely she'd gotten not one John, but many. Also, like the tiny figures in an Escher print, he seemed to be moving… oddly; as though striding head-downward along the underside of a long and twisted staircase.

He (all of him) seemed briefly to notice her. Then the phantom contact vanished, leaving TinTin with a faint, pained apology, and a few more words of Russian. Leaving her, too, knee-deep in snow with Kapitan Konstantin Zaitsev, who drew her aside as his team began evacuating victims from the frigid bus.

_"This mekhanizm-chevlovek,"_ he asked her, _"Sama ty pugata'…_Alone youscare it?_"_ A warm smile touched the handsome young captain's face, then. _"Devushka, _You_… ochen' krabryjja _are… very brave girl."

A second shock wave occurred then, this one because he'd impulsively reached out to pat her arm. The startled captain produced an imaginatively colored, 'three-decker remark', colliding briefly with TinTin. Snow jumped and articles quivered in a ring that expanded away from the girl at the speed of a sudden, hot blush. Love hurts.


	56. Chapter 56: Let it Go

Last editand profoundest apologies for the messy first draft.

**56: Let It Go**

_Mt. Everest, the North Face; a shattered space plane-_

Gordon Tracy had worked himself numb (or perhaps it was simply the sparse air and raking cold). The torn fuselage in which he labored gave occasional shuddering groans, jolted this way and that by a gradually settling, unstable slope.

Gordon did his precarious best to ignore this, trusting that the jutting boulders and ice-daggers Fireflash had fetched up against would bear the plane's weight a bit longer. Distractions there were, aplenty. Beyond the force dome, a truly horrific gale roared, spat and howled; seeming alive, almost. Within, beneath slow rainbows of flexing light, two fragile centers of warmth and life lay connected by a flickering umbilical, like plastic figures in a snow globe.

In Thunderbird 1's storage area, Scott folded the crew seats back into their bulkhead mounts and moved a few crates around. He was back in his climbing gear again, slowed by bulky clothing and sore muscles as he rushed to clear space for the crash survivors. Should have done it earlier, but a great deal had happened in the last two hours, most of it bad.

Keeping a weather eye on his remote status lights, Scott struggled to keep the force shield up, cutting power to one system after another for forty-five moreminutes of continuing shelter. Wincing, he even shut down heating and life support. This was going to have to be quick…

Striding to the outer hatch, Scott peered up-slope at a maimed aircraft. The flares had long since guttered out, but there was light enough to see with, cast by the escape tube and shimmering dome. No movement from the plane yet, though. Scott triggered the comm unit in his high-altitude climbing suit.

"Gordon," he called out, grimacing as Thunderbird 1's landing gear slid on the rocky surface. "Ready when you are. Start sending them down."

Two-hundred yards away, inside the curtained nest that 'his' survivors had fashioned for themselves, Gordon nodded. At this altitude, even with supplemental oxygen and the crashed plane's emergency heater, every breath was a stinging ice-pick and his head a throbbing mess. He was simultaneously hungry and nauseous, with vivid cravings for peppermint tea and a double-handful of snow.

In this mildly addled state, with harness in hand, Gordon approached the flight attendant. She'd been crouched beside the space heater, watching as he returned from rigging a line and pulley. Like the others, she'd been given a baggy, all weather survival suit to put on (bright orange, one-size-does-for-all).

"Ma'am," the swimmer gasped, holding out a blue nylon safety harness, "as you're… most fit among th' survivors… an' I must remain behind t' see t' the others…"

She took his meaning at once and shook her bandaged head, eyes huge and serious.

"No," the battered young woman told him firmly. A long, wet cough interrupted her statement, which she resumed as soon as she was able to breathe again. "In the absence of… our captain and first officer, it is my… duty to assist the surviving… passengers, Sir."

Despite her own best efforts,she began to tear up. The cabin crew (Captain Walter Petty and First Officer Jae Benning) were still in the plane's smashed cockpit, having lost their lives in the crash, together with an elderly businessman in the first row.

Gordon's headache extended several meters past the confines of his actual skull. In fact, he'd have taken oath that he could feel those frost-furred bolts and rivets cracking…

"Assist them y' shall. My word on it, Ma'am. But you c'n… help best by seein' to their placement… within th' hold… as my mate brings them through. Please trust me, Ma'am, that with… just th' two of us 'ere… we're very much needin' your efforts, not tryin' t' brush you aside. I'd not lie t' you."

Although she couldn't see the young man's face, the sincerity of his tone convinced her. Angel Martinez struggled to her feet (and an uncertain business it was, in a commuter plane that had come to rest onone crumpled side). After her latest coughing spell had run its course, Gordon buckled the harness about her body, tightening the straps as gently as possible around cracked ribs and wrenched back. A snap-link carabiner was then attached to the harness ring, and made secure.

"Right, then…" he told her, indicating the survival suit's top zipper, "this hood closes t' keep air and… warmth trapped within. Y'll not… have much of a view, I'm afraid… till y've touched bottom, but a short ride, it is; ten seconds at most."

Once again, the flight attendant nodded.

"Ten seconds, only," she repeated.

"Yes, Ma'am. I promise you."

He got the privacy curtain opened up, bade the others to keep courage, and escorted Ms. Martinez back through the plane. Much colder beyond the curtain, with poor visibility and worse footing, but they managed to reach the plane's raggedly truncated end, a few meters from which lay thestart of Scott's "off-ramp". Gently curved and subtle of descent, it cast rippling bands of light and flickering shadows upon the snow and rock below. Beautiful, insubstantial-seeming thing… like aurora borealis, almost; a pale and silent flame.

Bracing the flight attendant, Gordon helped her off the plane and into position, fastening a line to the harness as he spoke. Boots crunching through snow and loose stone, they approached the force tube.

"Mind the sharp bits… step down now, love… that's it. See the silver rocket, away down there? That's where you're bound… Thunderbird 1. Into the end, now… doesn't look like much, but it _will_ hold… though all the static does rather make one's hair stand… Right. I'll close y'r suit now… and you'll be seein' my teammate next… at th' other side."

Once she was oriented properly (as though about to plunge down a water slide on her back, though with rather more clothing) Gordon zipped the woman's hood shut, leaving just her dark eyes showing through a square of clear plastic. She did not protest. Like the others, Ms. Martinez trusted him utterly; a precious and frightening thing for one so young to deal with.

Giving the top of her head a slight pat (and pausing for his own sudden coughing fit) Gordon released the rope's safety catch and began lowering his first survivor. Just about precisely ten seconds later, she reached the safety of Thunderbird 1.

Peering anxiously down-slope, Gordon made out the small figure of Scott raising the flight attendant to her feet. His brother, no more from this vantage than a snow-suited manikin, gave him a brief wave, then helped Ms. Martinez into the storage compartment. _Score…_

Though he earned no wage for all this, sometimes the job paid quite handsomely, indeed. Beneath his goggles and air mask, Gordon smiled (coughed again, too, but never mind that; work to be done, and so forth). Much warmer inside than out, he executed a ponderous about-face and headed back into the wreck. Fourteen more to go, beneath a glimmering, will-o-the-wisp barrier and a homicidally raging storm.

"Gordon," came Scott's voice, about halfway along his over-the-seat scramble, "two things. I've picked up a signal from the flight data recorder, and something's headed this way; no transponder or replies-to-hail, so I'm figuring it isn't the Avon lady. We've _got_ to speed this up. Two at a time, if you and they are up to it."

He had one hand upon the overhead luggage rack, was pushing off against a dented head rest at the time. _Still_ felt wretched about that business with the videophone, and all the time lost refastening his line from rocket plane to wreckage, so…

"Right. Hurryin' along, Scott. What are… th' coordinates, then? For the black box? Might, um… swing about an' retrieve 'er… if th' opportunity presents itself."

His foot slipped and he stumbled, catching an armrest to the (not-well-enough-padded) groin. In the few minutes before he could see and breathe again, Gordon decided that presenting his brother with Flight 211's black box would more than recoup his earlier blunders.

Scott rattled off the pertinent figures, adding,

"…But it's outside the dome, and we're in a hurry. Airbus may have to hire some Sherpas and go after it themselves, once climbing season comes around."

After this, the brothers fell into almost an assembly-line pattern of hook-up, push-off and lower, retrieve, stow and begin all over _(but Gordon didn't forget his earlier notion; like the snowboarding idea, it made perfect sense at the time)._

He had a sore arm and bruised groin, and Scott a number of cuts from his fall, but motivation, adrenaline and bottled oxygen kept them moving.

Four… five… and then all of the simple transports were done. The remainder were rather badly injured, and most would have to be lowered upon stretchers.

Six, seven and eight had sustained broken limbs. They were sedated, and required as gentle as possible a ride. Gordon hoisted them one at a time into a fireman's carry and began a slow, grunting traverse of the downed plane. Sweat began running into his eyes despite the cold, and he had to stop increasingly often to cough. …But over they went, and safely so.

Nine and ten were concussed and unconscious, and by now every muscle in his back and arms seemed outlined in fire.

"Gordon," his brother spoke again, the transmitted voice betraying deep tension. "We've got maybe twenty minutes remaining on that shield. Less, if it has to deflect another avalanche or a laser burst… which I count on our circling friends to figure out, soon. Listen: contingency for dome failure is, you grab everyone you can, I launch and hover above, and we execute a direct airlift. Harness up, just in case. Understood?"

"…'Stood, Scott…"

Athletes learn to push themselves beyond normal limits, and Olympic gold medalists further than that… but Gordon was close to the edge, even so. Once again, he was facing a lactic-acid-drenched, no-oxygen nightmare, sucking air so fast that he emptied his bottle. Was at once freezing-clammy and hot as hell's toaster oven. Naturally, pulled up lame with a bloody cramp, too, but managed to limp along.

Eleven and twelve were close to death from internal injury, clinging to life on a trauma patch and muttered 'Hail Mary'.

He vomited, cleaned the mess out of his air mask and carried on, because that's what one did. Thirteen…

"Gordon? Five minutes. Grab the other survivors and take them through, yourself. Never mind the line. Our 'friends' have got a target lock, they're above the clouds, and close enough to send another love note. Gordon…? _Answer me!"_

Well… bit of a problem with that, wasn't there? Couldn't seem to catch a solid breath… but he did tap at his wrist comm; Morse code 'A-OK'.

Survivors fourteen and fifteen, the skull fracture and final-stage shock, he dragged over the dented arm rests on a makeshift double stretcher. Lashed down with elastic cord and slashed safety belts, they were, to a section of torn interior panel.

Outside the plane, again, where snow and wind swept against the faltering dome in great sheets, like driving rain on quivering tent fabric. Wouldn't hold up to much more…

He pushed the stretchered pair into the force tunnel and stood there playing the line out, gasping at knife's-edge 'air' that was no more than a bitter lie.

Then,

"Gordon, where the hell are you? We've got to lift off!"

Not yet. Something to get, first…

"Data… recorder…" he coughed out, reddening the snow at his boots. "Get it… and back in… two… two…"

_"Screw the recorder!_ Gordon, listen to me: you're hypoxic. You're not thinking straight, and if you do this, you're going to die! Let it go!"

Stubbornly,

"Not so… bad as all that… Scott. Two minutes… all 't will take…"

_(Scott was already moving. He should have made ready to launch instead, but that was his brother out there, altitude-drunk and about to kill himself.)_

"Mister, get your ass in the boarding tube. The black box isn't worth it… it isn't worth _you. _Understood?"

For just a moment, Gordon saw himself handing Scott the flight data recorder; mission accomplished, to cheers and accolades… like a medal ceremony. But then his older brother's odd words… _"It isn't worth you"…_ cut through the hypoxic fantasy.

He stumbled into the transport tube, rode a flashing, sparking undulant slide, face down and utterly spent. Scott was waiting for him at the bottom, with a second oxygen bottle and a hand up.

Gordon avoided looking at his brother while they thudded up the cargo ramp and back into Thunderbird 1. As his head cleared, the swimmer felt increasingly stupid. Nearly killed the lot of them, he had.

Scott closed and locked the outer compartment hatch, shutting away thin air and deadly cold. As it slammed into place, some of the rescued victims began to cry; relieved, maybe, or sorry for lost others.Scott handed his brother a stack of blankets, saying,

"I'll repressurize… in a minute," (the oxygen bottle he'd given Gordon was his own) "But I want to… get airborne, first. Too vulnerable… down here. Strap in and hang tight, folks. Going… for a ride."

And with that, Scott ducked through another hatch to head forward, pausing just long enough to add,

"You, uh… did more work up there… than a team of horses, Gordon. Probably saved my life, too. Thanks."

Credit where credit was due. The pilot gave his younger brother a somewhat weak and gingerly backslap. (He was hurt, himself.)

"Now… what d' you say… we get these people to Lhasa?"

Scott's compliment was rewarded by an almost visible lessening of tension. Funny, what a little acknowledgement could do, at the right moment. Just like his father, Scott Tracy was learning.

A final quick nod and he raced forward, leaving Gordon to finish strapping in the fifteen survivors of Flight 211. Back in the cockpit, he cut off the shield generator. The force dome evaporated at once, blinking out in a fast-widening circle. Released, the blizzard closed around them like a bone-white fist, blinding, shaking and battering.

A glance to the main scanner revealed that the high-circling 'blip' had spotted its chance. Their friends were about to close in for a second go. Thunderbird 1's target lock indicator went off, again, painfully shrill.

Yeah, he got it; they were sitting ducks, plastered to the mountainside in somebody else's sights. Not for long, though.

Scott initiated the rocket plane's launch sequence, feeling her snarl to life around him. Strapping in with one hand, jamming stick and throttle with the other, he lifted off; a meteoric flare that vaporized ice and powdered rock, shaking the north face like another avalanche.

Landing gear up… weapons armed… hard starboard roll…

And the intruding aircraft all at once altered course. Shocking.

"Attention, assholes," Scott muttered, eyes hard on the targeting screen. "Allow me to introduce Thunderbird 1, when she _isn't_ stuck in the ice, rescuing helpless civilians."

Couldn't say he was a bit surprised when the other plane (some form of fast, foreign-makescout craft) beat a swift and undignified retreat.

"Guess not, huh?"

He'd have given chase, but there were victims to drop off, anda situation brewing out in Siberia.

"Maybe next time," he said, pushing forward on the stick. Everest, wreathed in cloud, faded away behind him. Three bodies and a space plane she'd claimed. The rest had leave to depart and (if they were wise) return no more.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Washington, D.C.; Dirksen Senate Office Building-_

Senator Stennis sat at his old desk, watching news reports from Chile, Siberia and Tibet. More private, here. Beside him stood Vicente Vargas… perfectly, blankly calm.

"Not a total failure," the senator mused, hitching up his red tie in preparation for a meeting of the ethics committee.

"No, Senor," Vargas agreed carefully, watching his employer's eyes. Better than most, he knew what Lamar Stennis was capable of, and how the man thought.

"…But not a real success, either. All that effort and no major kills. With our 'CEO' still in deep cover on that island, of his. Let's see…"

Stennis switched off the view screen and got briskly to his feet. Committee meetings and voting sessions were invaluable networking tools. The chance to be seen… to drop inflammatory words in the right ear… could not be wasted. On the other hand, his 'real' obligation needed attending to.

"…We'll make another public statement, something cryptic, hitting on the links between WorldGov, Tracy Aerospace and all those foreign rescue missions. Raise a few questions."

Vargas bowed his assent.

"And then, Senor, another 'operation'?"

Stennis looked thoughtful, but shook his head. Reaching his suit jacket off the brass coat rack, he said,

"No. Not yet. The trick to luring Jeff Tracy into the open is knowing what bait to use. And that'll be handed right to us in just about a week. Gives us time enough to prepare something that'll stick."

For a moment, the senator's eyes narrowed, heralding a burst of icy cunning.

"Let Pretty-boy get back from Mars… his daddy won't be able to resist all the corporate photo ops and free publicity. He'll show. Then…"

Dangerous to discuss his business so openly, but a good scrambler hid a multitude of plots, and sometimes the best of plans had to be altered.

"…we move in. Keep Genovese on target. I want Pretty-boy brought in for questioning before you take on his daddy. No public reveal, until after we've wrung out whatever pertinent information he's got, and the _organization_ is leaderless."

"And Stirling?" Vargas inquired, head and voice carefully lowered.

Stennis shrugged into his jacket. With a single, contemptuous head-shake, he said,

"Useless, now. If he gets himself patched up, we'll renegotiate. Otherwise, he's so much worthless junk. Keep an ear to the usual channels, though. If it looks like he's about to go public with this, pull the plug. Hard."

Vargas smiled thinly. He'd rather wondered what would happen, should he and the cyborg ever square off. Now it seemed he'd have an officially sanctioned opportunity to find out.

Nor was this the end. Almost as an aside, headed out the door and into the valuable business of shaping political will, the senator added,

"...And I believe that we'll be visiting our guest this afternoon, to do a little... 'fine tuning'."

All things considered, Vicente Vargas was in a business that he quite enjoyed.

"Si, Senor. As you say."


	57. Chapter 57: Regroup

Okay, tiny edit, toward the end. Couldn't resist. And thanks to Tikatu, A-5 and ED for their feedback. )

**57: Regroup**

_Thunderbird 1, flying very high over Russia-_

Scott had poured it on, after delivering the plane crash victims to Lhasa, but he was still too late to intercept or assist the kids; Alan, TinTin and Fermat were no longer in Siberia. Per Jeff Tracy's orders, they'd been airlifted to Moscow by the departing Russian heli-jets. Nothing for it but to follow, so Scott turned Thunderbird 1's nose westward, heading for the teeming city, and somewhat gentler climes. More or less alone, too, for Gordon had fallen asleep in the storage compartment, not even removing his gear, first.

On the way to Moscow, Scott learned that Virgil had come under attack, and that Alan had been severely injured in what turned out to be _far_ more than a large-animal roundup.

Speaking with his exhausted father via comm-link, Scott detailed his own recent experiences, concluding with,

"I didn't pursue, Sir; too much danger to the passengers, if I were to involve myself in any kind of dogfight."

His father appeared to have stepped away from the desk. The view behind him was one of shadowy palms and pearly-moist, twittering dawn. The older man rubbed at a knot in the back of his neck.

"You did the right thing, Son. Civilians always come first. As for the flight data recorder, we'll return for it when conditions improve. Right now, frankly, it's not a priority. The timing of all these attacks _is._ (Thank you, Kyrano.)"

Jeff accepted a heavy ceramic mug from his off-camera manservant, sniffed appreciatively, then blew away the curling steam. Scott found himself swallowing hard, right along with his father. He could almost taste that coffee.

The elder Tracy's transmitted image drained the cup, and then held it out for a refill, taking what appeared to be a fresh croissant from a silver tray. Scott's stomach rumbled, hopefully not loudly enough to be picked up by the comm. Said Jeff,

"I have to assume that this was a coordinated effort to strike while our forces were divided."

Pausing to break and butter the croissant, he added,

"It's happened before, and I mean to be prepared if our assailants try again. From now on: one mission at a time, with at least three prime operatives present, and two 'Birds. _Period._ They've come close to nailing us twice, this way. If we let it happen again, we deserve everything we get."

On this point, Scott certainly agreed.

"Yes, Sir. The thing that bothers me, though, is that now we've got the Mars mission coming in hot. It's pretty well common knowledge that we defended _Endurance's_ launch… so, if our 'friends' have any sense at all, Dad, they'll plan something _at _or just _after_ John's arrival, knowing that we'll be gathered, and more or less where to strike."

From somewhere behind his father, a parrot screamed at the rising sun; rusty and shrill as a cockpit alarm.

"I'll admit that's a scenario I've been considering for some time, Son… and without turning up many solutions. All I can think of is to intercept _Endurance_ on the moon, and sneak the astronauts home in Thunderbird 3. The ship itself can be retrieved at a safer date."

Scott had located a few sticks of chewing gum in the left armrest compartment of his seat. Cigarettes, too, although he'd quit smoking several years ago. He sighed, unwrapped the stale gum and placed it in his mouth, saying,

"My only issue with that, Dad, is that we've _all_ been to the NASA get-togethers and family events. We'll be recognized immediately, and not just by the flight crew."

For a moment, Scott considered mentioning Cindy's news about John, but decided against it. To judge by his father's rumpled, careworn appearance, he had too much to worry about, already. No sense turning grey hairs white, if he could help it. Still…

"I _did_ get a couple hundred emails from John, though, including some data he'd like sent in to Houston. Maybe you could find a way to pass it along without rousing suspicion, Dad?"

Jeff stretched until his joints cracked and his back popped.

"Roger…" (_Huge yawn_) "… that. Send me the data and I'll have it transmitted directly to Gene or Saul. Either one is knowledgeable enough about the situation to keep quiet on their source. Speaking of which… so she doesn't find out the hard way… you might want to inform your charming future wife that I just purchased enough WNN stock to gain a controlling interest…" (_Another yawn_) "…and that if she values her job, she's to back off of NASA. Understood?"

For some reason, this irritated Scott, and just when he'd begun feeling closer to his powerful father. The idea that Jeff Tracy now felt that he 'owned' Cindy was tough to swallow. Very quietly (almost drowned out by his own growling stomach and Thunderbird 1's engine noise) the fighter pilot said,

"She's a _reporter_, Dad. That's her _job_. She isn't wearing a collar and leash, and I _don't_ order her around; I ask. And, something tells me that if you try taking that tack with Cindy, she'll just find herself another news agency or go online, and you'll have yourself an enemy right along with all that stock."

His father stared at Scott across comm screen and continents, but didn't quite stare him down. In defense of his absent fiancée, for the very first time, Scott Tracy stood his ground.

"My response to that would have to be: _no,_ Sir."

Jeff blinked, then took another swig from the coffee mug to buy himself a little think time.

"I see," he said, after a very long, very chilly pause. "We'll table the matter for further discussion, Scott, at a more appropriate occasion. Meanwhile, you've got a mission to fly, and I'm due at a videoconference with my attorneys. Collect the kids, and return to base. Tracy, _out._"

The comm screen went dark, leaving Scott alone in a twilit cockpit, surprised by how very shaken he felt. He was 28 years old, and for the first time in his adult life Scott Tracy had disagreed with his father, and _backed him down._

He sat there waiting for lightning to strike; like a native who'd thrown a spear at his jeweled idol and shouted, _'You're nothing but stone!'_

Decked in a blue flight suit rather than shell beads and a loin cloth, Scott was every bit as awed by his own boldness. All at once, he switched to autopilot and turned to the comm's pull-out keyboard.

_Log onto InterplaNet… Endurance main comm… and…_

_'Hey, Little Brother,'_ he typed, and then stopped short; thinking. Nodding to himself, Scott hit a series of backspace and delete commands. New message:

_'Hey, John. Status report?'_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Moscow, Prince Igor Army Base-_

Gordon awoke just before touchdown, feeling a good bit less muddled. Coming forward, he strapped himself into the passenger seat for landing.

Night had fallen, and they now flew over a sprawling city nearly buried alive in snow. Between most buildings, Gordon had heard, the Muscovites had simply dug themselves tunnels. Better than braving the weather, he supposed, glad himself to be thoroughly warm and re-pressurized.

Granted clearance, Thunderbird 1 landed upon a newly plowed VTOL pad. Flipping switches with one hand and typing up his flight log with the other, Scott said,

"It's going to be another turn and burn, Gordon; we get 'em and go. Da… _I_ don't want our forces scattered, with the Red Path (and God knows who else) out there gunning for us."

He had good reason to be concerned. Not five minutes earlier, the terrorist group had issued a statement picked up by every major network. Over a background of hissing static, a digitally altered voice had claimed,

_"Havoc has been unleashed across the globe, unleashed upon those who cling to the atom and the spark… Neither World Governance nor International Rescue shall stay the righteous wrath of a hungry and crowded people, nor put an end to what will come… Follow not the Knights of Chaos and Technology, for they are doomed to fall, dragged to their ruin by a fiery chariot from on high… You are warned."_

"Three stops past Barking and halfway t' Middlesex," had been Gordon's response… but he, too, was worried.

The Red Path and its mysterious leader weren't just violent and backward, they were evidently quite mad. Just now, though he wanted very much to return to Madrid (and Anika Peralta), even Gordon had to admit that retreating to base was the wiser course.

Tugging at his wrinkled blue uniform, Gordon unstrapped, accepted a stick of chewing gum by way of dinner, and then climbed stiffly to his feet. He'd have started off at once, but Scott seized his right shoulder.

"Together," his brother said, very firmly. "It's bad enough that there are only two of us. Let's not compound the problem by splitting up."

Although, as it happened, they weren't allowed the choice. Scott and Gordon Tracy were met on the flood-lit tarmac by an assortment of high ranking Army officers and government officials. The scowling men arrived by limousine, with a clipboard full of release forms, an airlift-rescue bill, and an aura of bureaucratic stubbornness second only to that of the jobsworths at a US consulate.

Scott accepted the bill with a deep sigh (into the hundreds of thousands, it ran) and then began marking his **'X'** on the signature lines of three separate illegal alien release forms. Gordon, meanwhile, went off under escort to retrieve his brother, TinTin and Fermat.

A short ride to the base hospital ensued (and in quite the flash vehicle, but Gordon preferred his own sturdy Jeep, or Thunderbird 4). Gordon's Russian was nearly up to par with his French… meaning that he had very little to say to his smiling escort, a dark haired young officer in smartly-cut khakis.

Their limousine passed from the airfield into a short tunnel, replacing star-flecked sky with fluorescent strips and cracked tile. Its tyres bumped over small joists in the tunnel floor _(and how, Gordon wondered, was Virgil getting on? Or Alan and the other kids, for that matter?)_.

Tired as he was, the amplified engine noises and rhythmic thumping might have sent Gordon to sleep, but the tunnel opened suddenly into a subterranean roundabout, and thence to the hospital's underground car-park.

Small and dim, mostly, with many signs posted, all in fierce Cyrillic. Judging by the number of exclamation points, many of these posted statements began with,

_"Don't,"_

…carried on with,

_"or else,"_

…and finished up with a cheery,

_"your carefully packaged remains."_

Brilliant. Absolutely lovely spot to turn up an injured brother.

Gordon had a rule about hospitals: the further inside one had to venture to see a patient, the worse off he or she actually was. Also… they made him deeply uncomfortable, stirring matters to the surface that Gordon preferred to forget.

Striding along those antiseptic halls, he stuck closer to his escort than the man's own shadow, having got the sudden, dreadful notion that he'd be abandoned here. Thankfully, they soon afterward turned into the proper, fourth storey ward. His puzzled escort glanced frequently at a handwritten note… directions or some such… and questioned nearly all of the passing medical staff. At the entrance to what looked like intensive care, he engaged in a guttural, arm-waving exchange with an outraged doctor. Others began to gather, glancing from the combatants to Gordon and adding their own bit to the general debate. Of course, he could just have asked, pointed to his mussed uniform and said something like, _'International Rescue? Where?'_

…But he wasn't much fond of doctors. Instead, Gordon slipped off, peering through one door after another until he spied a familiar figure. Granted, this was Russia, home to many blonds, but Gordon had a feeling, nevertheless.

He stepped from hallway to dim hospital room for a better look. Sure enough, Alan Tracy lay curled beneath white blankets on a bed of grey metal. There was a single, narrow window high in the concrete wall over his bed, too thickly coated with frost to see through.

His brother wasn't sheeted, and while an IV stand and bag were positioned by the sickbed, they'd already been disconnected. A good sign, surely, although Alan _must_ be in a bad way to endure that clown-pocked hospital smock. He was lying on his left side, holding a folded pad against his head, and his eyes were closed. There was a trauma patch still affixed to his neck, pumping out surgical nanobots and shock meds. TinTin, or someone, had acted swiftly.

Gordon closed the gap between them in two hurried steps, dashing over cracked grey linoleum to the raised bedrail.

"Alan!" he scolded, "what're you doin' in bloody Moscow?"

The younger boy's eyes opened, one a bit wider than the other.

"Bleeding," he replied plaintively, lifting the pad a bit to display a shaven and stitched-up morass.

Gordon very, _very_ gently patted his brother's shoulder.

"Eh," he scoffed, to cheer the boy up, "You looked worse after catchin' that surfboard in th' teeth, at Mentawis. Swallowed half on the spot, spat out the remainder. Now that _was_ a sight. Remember?"

Alan actually laughed a bit, though he immediately regretted it.

"_Ow…_ Quit making jokes, man. S' good to see you, though. Here to… check me out and go home?"

"Forms are bein' signed as we speak, mate, and I'll not leave th' room till you're cleared t' go."

Looking about the bleak room, Gordon pulled up a straight-backed chair and sat himself down (carefully, because his muscles were sore, and that groin bruise remained a source of sudden, blinding astonishment when changing positions). Doctor and escort poked their heads in, at one point, but seemed content enough to make a few comments and leave the IR agents in peace.

"So, let's have it, then," Gordon prompted, "Which creature of the, er… 'mythic past'... brought you low? And how are TinTin an' Fermat?"

Alan opened his blue eyes again, lifting the pad for a better look at his red-haired brother. Gordon was sitting kinda funny, he noticed.

"Fermat's a couple doors down, in the kiddy ward. TinTin told me. I saw her a minute ago when she left with Captain What's-his-Accentto see if the cafeteria's still open. They're okay, I guess… but you oughta ask _them_ what happened, not me."

The pad went down again, like a trapdoor slamming shut. In a somewhat snuffly voice, Alan added,

"I was too busy getting my butt kicked by the dang Terminator to notice any, like, elephant rodeos or rescuing. TinTin and Fermat did all the work. Anyways, let's don't talk about that. How'd it go with you guys?"

One of the best things about Gordon was, once you got him started, he'd talk the sun out of the sky and back around again. All you had to do was tune in and out, look reasonably interested, and say something encouraging whenever he stopped for air.

Downed planes and force shields, avalanches and wounded victims, Alan saw it all played out against his closed lids. He smiled crookedly at his brother's enthusiastic descriptions, wincing when Gordon told about that armrest-to-the-crotch business (certainly explained why he was sitting that way…).

Until Scott showed up with TinTin and Fermat and a stack of **X**-ed release forms, Gordon kept him company. It was good to have a brother, but even better having a friend.

They departed Prince Igor Army Base less than an hour later, returning to the island to rest, heal up, debrief and plan…

While _Endurance_ did her best, over the many long months, to get home.


	58. Chapter 58: Recover and Respond

**58: Recover/ Respond**

_Endurance, the cargo bay-_

"Pete…"

No immediate response, so…

"Hey… Pete!"

John Tracy detached himself from his restraint and pushed off across the padded white cargo bay. Pete McCord, the mission commander, hung in midair beside the folded robot arm in a sort of weightless fetal crouch. Like John, he wore a mission tee-shirt, blue shorts and a galaxy of chirping bio-sensors. He didn't look so good, but… yeah; blame it on savage meds and cosmic radiation. Whatever.

He wasn't unconscious, though. When John drifted up, braking with an outthrust hand to the cargo arm, McCord mumbled,

"What's on your mind, Tracy?"

"Beer," the ice-blond pilot replied honestly. But there was more, so he added,

"Remember you… um… asked me to think about this… time distortion thing?"

Pete's eyes opened slightly; pale blue irises against deeply blood-shot whites.

"Yeah. Back in the airlock. What'd you come up with?"

They weren't exactly facing each other squarely. Since every gesture or puff of the cabin fans tended to affect their position, the two men drifted at angles to one another, something you got used to out here that probably would have bugged the hell out of people on Earth.

"Some kind of Lorentz violation, maybe," John responded. Corralling his thoughts was like scattering sunflower seeds on a rainy sidewalk and hoping the right birds came fluttering in. There was nothing much to do but talk, so he fumbled out an explanation, or tried to.

"Okay… suppose you have… assume a spherical observer."

The mission commander cocked a sandy eyebrow.

"Spherical…?" he half croaked, half chuckled, reviving enough to reach for his Velcro-mounted water bottle.

"Sorry. Bad physics humor. Say we have an observer… call him Ian… standing at the shore of a lake."

"How big?" McCord was interested, now, his eyes fully open.

"Beg pardon?"

"The lake. We talking Lake Michigan, here, or a cow pond?"

John considered, coming up at slow length with,

"Well, it's supposed to represent a universal, vectored Higgs-field, so… make it Lake Superior."

Pete uncurled somewhat, after taking a long, iodine-laced drink.

"Affirm. It's a big sonuvabitch. Lake and observer; now what?"

"Now, at mid-lake there's a stick, floating toward our shore observer. It's pushed by normal wave action at a given rate… and our observer's watching it."

"With what? A damn orbital telescope? How slow a month is this guy _having?"_

John looked away. Smiling at McCord's impatient questions, he said,

"High-powered binoculars… and he's _extremely_ bored. Nothing to do up there but watch. And code."

"Gotcha. Ian's observing a floating stick in the middle of Lake Superior. How's all this relate to our time differential?"

"Well…" John refused an offer of chewing gum. He _sort of_ wanted to eat, but his stomach had been cramping a lot, lately, and there was an oddly metallic taste in his mouth.

"Ian expects the stick to arrive within a certain time-frame, but something comes along and, uh… disturbs the parameters. An underwater methane bubble pops, or something, and this… big rush of surfacing gas creates giant waves in the water. Through it. Whatever."

Pete held a pinched-off square of unwrapped Juicy Fruit, but made no move to actually chew it. Evidently, he too was experiencing digestive technical difficulties.

"So, the stick moves faster than expected? Because something…?"

"Disturbed the field through which it was moving," John nodded. "Right. The stick, or ship, which was traveling point-first toward Ian, gets pushed sideways. It's now…. oriented differently than everything else, I guess… and so not just the bigger spacetime ripples, but the fact that it's broadside to wind and waves causes acceleration."

Pete ran a hand through his hair, creating some acceleration of his own.

"So… things 'll probably straighten out once our hero wades in there, fishes out this speeding stick and gets himself a life… and/or _we_ reach home. That what you're trying to say? Okay… I get the whole gas bubble-and-lake scenario, but what about your field? What knocked _Endurance_ on her ass, relative to everything else?"

Good question. John shrugged; almost, for a minute, thinking about a kamikaze crash dive and last-second transmission.

"Um… I dunno, Pete. Something big, high speed or extremely energetic, I guess, from outside our universe. Point is… our orientation to the Higgs-field has changed. Thanks to this disturbance, we've been given one hell of a temporal boost… from _their_ perspective. Ian gets his stick in a hurry, all right, but an ant riding on the thing actually experiences a choppier, longer ride."

A low thudding noise interrupted the conversation between pilot and mission commander. The main cargo bay access hatch swung open, bumping against the padded interior. Kim Cho shot through an instant later, gripping the handles of a medical case between her teeth. Of course, she could have just leashed and towed the case, but when _you_ stopped and your baggage _didn't_, major bruises tended to result. John had reason to know.

Seeing the doctor, Pete's face changed. He looked suddenly grim, but then, he was older and had been receiving the lion's share of her medications. Still managed to be a smart-ass, though. Giving Cho a nod, he said grandly,

"Doctor… how can we help you?"

The exobiologist returned a weary smile, not easy to do around that mouthful of nylon strapping. Soaring across the cargo bay, Cho hurried up to the dying men's side.

She wore a stark-white medical clean suit, including the hood, but had left aside her facemask. Some human contact was vital, even for terribly irradiated patients, and Kim Cho was willing to take her chances.

Halting her flight at the cargo arm, the Korean doctor switched her medical case from mouth to hand, then snapped open its plastic lid.

"Good morning, Gentlemen. I have given a renewed look to the data transmitted by Dr. Hackenbacker, and I have correspondingly manufactured a drug to his specifications that will… it is hoped… enable rapid regeneration of damaged tissues."

She worked as she spoke, taking up a thumb-sized capsule of murky fluid and loading it into an altered vaccination gun. John watched the biologist assemble her equipment, trying to decide whether this brainstorm of Ike's was going to do any more good than the last one.

"How's it work?" Pete asked.

For an instant, Cho paused; hands hanging still amid the capsules, batteries and drug phials that hovered in place around them. Taking a deep breath, she reached for a power cell, and then glanced up.

"That is not entirely certain. There is some risk of cancer, for tissue growth will proceed unchecked from newly created stem cells, to be halted when your organs have been repaired." Next she added, looking from Pete to John and back again,

"If you prefer not to attempt this treatment, we will go on as before, with conventional therapies, alone."

Her glum tone of voice pretty well said it all. Pete looked over at the silvery, half-assembled vaccinator.

"Honest assessment, Doctor… what're our chances of surviving long enough to reach Earth _without _this stuff?"

Cho tried to reply aloud, but could not, merely shaking her head and gazing down at her small hands. Her dark eyes were reddened, and it suddenly occurred to John that she'd been crying.

He and Pete exchanged glances. Then the mission commander held out his arm.

"Understood," he said, "and risk accepted. Let's do 'er."

McCord went first, the process requiring many super-sonically fired injections all over his marred and shaking body. By the end, with enzyme P-38 entirely subdued, he looked worse than ever, but had (hopefully) begun to repair himself.

Dr. Kim next came to John Tracy, subconsciously assessing his symptoms as she floated over. Younger than the commander and in better health to begin with, he was slightly less ravaged. But cosmic radiation had left its burning mark here, as well. He seemed as pale as the cargo bay interior, and could keep nothing down, requiring a strapped-on, pump action IV bag for fluids and nourishment.

"If this works," he asked her, as Cho began loading a freshly-tailored drug capsule, "we'll be good to go? Radiation, tissue damage… all taken care of?"

Dr. Kim's lips pursed. She flushed pink, which mystified John until she began explaining matters.

"That is indeed affirmed… all will be corrected, John, provided that cancer does not strike, or… that is… in light of your marriage to Linda… I must caution you against further intercourse, until… until the damaged generative cells have been, er… purged from your body."

He'd never known that an oriental female could blush so deeply.

"No sex. Got it." _Figures…_

She literally struggled over the next part, whispering in a hot-faced rush,

"It is not enough simply to abstain, John. You _must…"_

"Purge. Yeah… Understood, Doctor. I'll, um… keep my hands to myself. So to speak."

Bad choice of words, maybe. To spare her anguished blushes, John held out his left arm, saying,

"Let's get started, then. With the shots, I mean."

If he'd offended her, Dr. Kim certainly got even. The nearly continual hiss and pop of the vaccination gun, the sharp burning sensation of impressed drugs pretty much destroyed the next miserable hour. She must have finished with him, though (or just run out of ammo) because a long peaceful stretch went by. Okay, he still felt like shit, but at least no one was pistol-whipping him with a damn air-powered drug gun. Then something went off; an alarm, from his velcroed personals bag. The wrist comm?

Needing distraction, John talked himself through detaching his restraint straps and then dragged himself hand-over-hand to the black mesh bag. Looked around, but Pete was asleep and Dr. Kim off stirring her cauldron, or something.

With one hand locked to a bulkhead strap, John got the bag open and pulled out his beeping, vibrating communicator. Of all the damn… _Penelope._

He kept to audio, and hit the respond key.

"Yeah… John Tracy. Go ahead, Penny."

Took maybe forty-five minutes for her recordedmessage to unzip, but he got a chance to nap while waiting. Not a bad time-passer, though what came next baffled him completely.

"John, darling," her voice, all cultured softness over sharpened ice, woke him again. "I find myself in possession of information vital to the well-being of yourself, certainly… and that of others, as well."

She paused briefly, as though thinking.

"Naturally, you'll be most anxious to receive this intelligence, but it cannot be safely transmitted over the comm. I should feel secure _only_ in delivering this information to you, John, at a place and time of your choosing."

Another, longer pause, during which he could make out what sounded like airplane engines and radio chatter.

"It may be, Darling, that I've seemed a trifle… distracted… of late, but I hasten to assure you that _nothing_ between us has changed. I look forward with warmest anticipation to your return, and to our partnering with one another to nullify this threat."

(A small, nervous laugh followed this statement.)

"Actually, to partnering in general, as it were. At any rate, please reply, as I am… not to put too fine a point on it, Dear… facing _immediate_ difficulty. I… our relationship has always been something that I've deeply cherished, John, and I would far rather resolve the present contretemps _with_ you, rather than… rather than _against_ you. _Do_ come home, swiftly so, and meet with me. I remain, hopefully, you own loving Penelope. Farewell, Dear, until I've the opportunity to prove all that I've said."

Well… _shit._ Overhead, Pete McCord coughed, mumbling something in his sleep to a long-gone lady friend. John put the wrist comm away.

What the hell was he supposed to do now, over 40 million miles away from helping _anybody?_


	59. Chapter 59: Sentry

Small edit.

**59: Sentry**

_Endurance, on free return trajectory, Mars to Moon corridor-_

It was a bad bargain, maybe, but better than nothing, and at least they'd been given a chance. The sonically impressed drugs turned off a critical enzyme in the bodies of John Tracy and Pete McCord, causing new stem cells to form.

Damaged tissues regenerated and strength returned, tugging health along in its wake. John figured he'd turned a corner the day he was able to eat something (just a graham cracker, but still pretty impressive) and not have to reach for a sickness bag. Even better, the morning he and Pete were allowed to exit the cargo bay, hauling themselves forth to back-slaps and long embraces. Except for the fact that he'd now have to discover cold fusion or raise a new island chain to catch up with Hackenbacker, John felt pretty good.

He had to be medically cleared for duty, though, by the ship's doctor. And, if he thought he had a guaranteed 'in' because Linda Bennett was his wife, John Tracy was very much mistaken.

"Well, Pete's got a clean bill of health," she'd announced, ushering John into the battered med-lab, "but there's a dark spot on his lung scan I'll be keeping an eye on."

Cancer was very much on everyone's mind, as was the condition of _Endurance's _hull.

John drifted into the small circle of scanning mechanisms, and fastened his feet to a set of Velcro traction pads, very much aware that there was a female in the cabin. Tough to miss, because she'd put on a little makeup, or something.

There was a warmer shade to her skin tone, now, and a very slight roundness to her belly. She touched him a lot; more than strictly necessary for a physical exam, and more gently. Not that he minded. The contact felt good, even if it was mostly in the service of duty.

As for Linda, she was having some trouble keeping her head in place.

_Temperature and blood pressure… eyes, throat, ears… listen to heart function and breathing… palpate lymph glands and abdomen… hand squeeze right and left… and then the interview:_

"Okay, Sunshine. How are you feeling?"

"Eighty percent," he decided, after a moment's thought, "and climbing. You?"

She set her data-board aside in mid-air, where it continued obediently to hover. One nice thing about microgravity, you could put things 'up' or 'next' as well as down. Of course, they did have a tendency to drift off. Much like Linda's professional concentration.

She reached out to push at his pale blond hair, then fastened herself to the Velcro deck pad and rubbed his shoulders.

"Better, now," his wife admitted, a little huskily.

He looked up, then away again, smiling at one of the scanners. A sudden warm rush of memory occurred, and he put an arm around the doctor's waist, to pull her closer.

"Hey, remember that night at the beach house, just before launch, when you said you wanted to show me the…"

John trailed off, confused, for Linda was shaking her head.

"No, John. I don't. Prior to launch, I stayed in my room, trying to call Spencer. You, Pete and Roger were up late, playing poker. Is there something…?"

She'd pushed away from him again, hands tight upon his shoulders, mind once more in frigid doctor-mode.

"Have you been having hallucinations, John? Hearing voices? Have you experienced suicidal thoughts?"

_Voices?_ He thought about Five, the AI he'd discovered on Mars, who'd claimed to be his creation… Then thought of the crash-dive he kept glimpsing… the laughing blonde toddler he was _certain_ he already knew… and the wife who barely seemed to know him

Moment shattered, nascent feelings sifted away like sand.

"Um… no." John shook his head, not looking at her. "I'm good."

She wouldn't drop it, though.

"Sunshine, look at me. I'm not just the stand-in flight surgeon, here; I'm also your wife, and there are some things I need to know before I can clear you for duty."

John glanced at her, wishing he understood what was going on… hell, _anywhere._ With Penelope, his brothers, Drew… and especially, with Linda.

"Doctor, I've had a rough few weeks. It's possible that my recollection of past events got a little scrambled in all the chaos. I had some rocks bounce off my helmet, recently, and a hard core cosmic-ray tanning session, none of which leads to A-1 cognition. With all that in mind… what is it you want to know?"

His tone, icy and impatient, took Linda utterly aback. He waited there on the mid-scanner traction pad, arms folded and head down; seemingly as inaccessible as though standing behind glass.

Part of her wanted to be more woman than physician; to whisper…

_"Never mind, I'm sorry,"_

…and kiss the handsome, aloof young pilot. But she forced herself to remain professional, for the mission's sake, and their unborn child's.

"All right, then: International Rescue. How deeply involved _are_ you? There are some pretty big gaps in your flight record, John, that everyone back in Houston seems happy to overlook. I asked about it, once, a few months before launch, and was politely told to shut up and mind my own business." Her hand went down to the soft, curving swell of her belly as she added, "What am I getting us into, here?"

Fair enough.

"I'm… um… what's sometimes known as a prime operative; a core team-member. Some of the brass are aware of this, others may have guessed. Good deal all around and no questions asked, though, because along with the IT and piloting skills, Houston gets new technology and an added level of mission support. Like what happened during the launch."

"Okay," she'd begun to relax, a little. "So… how dangerous is this 'prime operative' status? What exactly does your job expose you to in the way of risk?"

John Tracy was by nature suspicious and bleak; admissions came hard for him, but he didn't want to lose his family. Not again.

"I guess you could say I'm a… sentry. First line of defense, or something. I process incoming emergency calls, keep the other operatives under cover and remote trouble-shoot the missions. Spent most of my time in orbit, until about two years ago, when my station was…"

And then they struck again, those hallucinatory memories; of a fiery world, a caged probe and the cindered remains of his home. He looked at her, this female who wasn't quite the wife he remembered… the one he hadn't been there to defend. And something inside knotted itself like barbed-wire.

"Know what? The hell with it. Enough with the third degree, Linda. Am I cleared for flight, or not?"

Bennett put a hand out, meaning to soothe him. Obviously, something was deeply wrong, and not just because of a few rocks.

"John, _wait_. I wasn't trying to get you yanked from the roster. Believe it or not, I love you."

She didn't bring up the journal, but did say, while rubbing the back of his neck,

"I slept in your bunk while you were sick. I did a lot of thinking, and it all comes down to this: you're an unusual guy, with not just one, but _two_ hazardous jobs… and you're the man I've fallen in love with. I figure we can work through all the rest, given time… if that's what you still want."

Eventually, he nodded, but Linda couldn't dodge the feeling that something was still troubling her husband. Good luck getting him to admit it, though. Astronauts tended to cover up any and all mental or medical issues, wanting first of all to fly, then to be trusted with command or a spacewalk. But John Tracy was pitched at a still higher level of _'better dead than look bad'_. In her experience, he told nobody _anything_ personal. Ever.

Hoping for the best, Linda gave him a quick hug, and then pulled free of her traction pad to start the med-scanner.

"So," Linda began, once the machinery was humming along. "Any thoughts on a name, yet?"

"Name…? For the baby?"

John hesitated, for something had turned up immediately. The little girl he'd assembled a tricycle for… the one who routinely got more peanut butter _on_ her than _in_ her, and had attended every launch… had been named 'Kara Jane-Ellen'. But they'd usually called her 'Junior'. More crazed hallucination?

"I'm not good with names," he finally replied, adding, "I had a cat, once…"

Linda's head peeped around the edge of her control panel.

"A _cat_? Aren't you allergic?"

He nodded, still dazed and distant.

"Strictly a business relationship. I kept him fed, and he kept me sick. Missed a lot of school, that semester. Not a pet, or anything, but he still needed a name. I thought about 'Schrodinger', except it seemed unlucky. Went with 'Stupid Cat' for awhile, then ended up calling him 'Bendix'. Like the computer company."

A deep, bone-rattling hum cut him off; the scanner, taking a multitude of high-resolution images. Not at all painful, though the internal vibrations felt weird.

"So, what happened?" Linda prodded, after the med-scan concluded.

(_Definite shadows on both lungs and sagitally: ribs 1-4… fibula as well, where previously fractured.)_

"…To Bendix, I mean?"

"My grandmother found out, and gave him away to a neighbor. But I did visit, once or twice." Then, a question of his own:

"What about 'Spencer'? Is he going to be a problem?"

"Huh…? Spencer? No… no problems with him. I could probably be dead for six months before he realized that the dishes were piling up. We have different work schedules. _Had."_

It was a decidedly worried Linda who floated back onto the scanning platform. All she said (thrusting her data-board and stylus at him) was,

"Cleared for flight. Sign here, here… _annnd_ here. Good. I'm putting you back on Tamoxifen; we'll schedule weekly follow-ups and, John…?"

"Yeah?" He handed back the document, still with that deathly-pale 'inward' look.

"If anything comes up… you feel, see, hear, think _anything_ out of the ordinary… _tell me._ I'll keep it between the two of us, Sunshine, but if you don't tell me what's going on, I can't help you. Make sense?"

Her tone was anxious, almost pleading, and her brown eyes very wide. John nodded, and then pulled her close again, all the while feeling strangely detached. Those memories… If real, then he'd already failed her once; horribly. If imagined, then he was insane. Grim choice, either way.

That evening, _(Mission Elapsed Time: six months, three weeks, twenty-one days, ten hours)_ John stood his first watch since leaving the cargo bay. He rather impatiently saw everyone else to their sleeping compartments, then prepared to research a few key facts.

Back on the quietly humming flight deck, John ran a vessel and system scan and double-checked _Endurance'_s course. So far, so good, though some of the hull shots looked iffy…

He needed more information, and didn't feel like waking anyone up, so John did what came naturally; he found out on his own. It was no trouble at all to link his laptop with the ship's comm and operating system, nor to crack Dr. Kim's password (like that was hard: _Roger_). Once into the exobiologist's account, all he had to do was access her copious notes.

The medical stuff he skipped over, needing instead her findings on their deteriorating hull. Paged down 3, 4, 5… skimming… _there._

The results were good and bad together. Yes, as she'd told Pete, Ferrospirilum had been contained, but the repair job was incomplete. With what amounted to a large, first-layer hull breach, there was no way that _Endurance_ could re-enter Earth atmosphere… and no way at all to mount another repair attempt without sacrificing a crewman; something Dr. Kim had probably told the mission commander in private.

_Damn._ Even a lunar landing would be problematic, now.

John was just about to move to his next line of inquiry when a message got through from Thunderbird 1, arriving with a quiet beep and flashing icon. He had a window open to one side of the screen for incoming mail, not that he'd really expected any.

Yet, defying distance and time-distortion, there it was… addressed to himself, from Scott. Almost as startling as Penny's message, or Drew's.

John stroked a forefinger across the laptop's touch pad, then clicked on the blinking icon for a very short note.

_'Hey, little brother. Got a minute?'_

Okay. He was twenty-six years old, and hardly 'little' anymore. Had been taller than Scott since the 7th grade… and yet his brother insisted on giving him the equivalent of a pet name. Irritating, maybe, but it was still good to hear from family, outdated nickname, or not. Might bring the matter up at their next 'conference', though…

John enabled transmission, typing out (in English, rather than 1337):

'I find myself with a little free time, yeah. What seems to be the major malfunction?'

But, Scott did not reply. Damn time differential, again. Might be weeks before he got a response, at this rate.

Well, it wasn't like he didn't have work to do, starting with Drew's telnet messages. He hadn't meant to ignore her, or Penny, either, but the calls had arrived at a bad time, been set aside for other matters (survival, mostly) and only now picked up again.

Her first message had been shorter than Scott's:

_36: 911: A_

Meaning that she was in trouble, and needed his help. The next letter had been a repeat of the first, the third a more detailed description of her danger.

It seemed that someone had emailed 'Anarchick' and begun launching criminal exploits under that long-buried alias. At this point, it became hard to think; too much emotional static, which he didn't have time for.

John had to ruthlessly shove it all… Drew, Penny, Scott and Linda… entirely under the surface to get anything done at all. Back home, without his protection, people were in danger. He could finish his cage match with insanity, later.

Right. Rebooted the system to its encrypted attack mode, accessing telnet through InterplaNet and a compromised FBI mainframe. _(Highly useful things, back doors.)_

Someone fairly sophisticated had launched those counterfeit exploits against WorldGov… but cover their tracks as best they might, they'd used a computer with a traceable IP address. One he meant to track down and question, no matter how long it took.

_(Three watches, actually, with the laptop surreptitiously linked the whole time. The hold-up wasn't on his end; it was in the Earth computers' responses, which oozed in like cooling magma, viscously slow.)_

John set to work as opportunity presented itself, employing a packet sniffing program, traceroute and the FBI's Carnivore to find the source computer, one cautious ping at a time. Didn't want to tip anyone off. Not yet.

The end of the line turned out to be a lone, sexily-amped attack box, linked to just one trusted server. Up in his bunk after watch, John ran a port scan, looking for open sockets.

"_Hel_-lo," he murmured. "What's a pretty thing like you doing home alone on a Friday night?"

For, though left on, she wasn't getting any traffic. No more than maintenance and upgrade activity in weeks… and port 25 was _wide_ open.

"You can trust me, Sweetie," John said, leaning forward just a little as he typed a few swift lines of code. "I'm a nice guy. There you go… accept the packet. Now, how about giving me access?"

Two more key strokes and he was a system administrator, with full root privileges. His next move (several hours later, while the others prepared breakfast and updated the mission log) was to check out the environment, courtesy of her remotely accessed webcam.

_(Had to be careful, there; an operating system might handle the speed of his incoming messages, but mere machinery could not. Too many commands in rapid succession might fry the camera's moving parts, denying him a prime sneak opportunity.)_

"Wake up, Baby. Open your eyes and look around, for me. Who's in the… Oh. Shit."

A corpse; white, male, and pretty far gone. Cashed out some time ago, from the look of things, with what appeared to be a bullet wound to the head… now sprawled amid pizza boxes on the floor of a small, concrete room. No wonder the attack computer had been idle. Immediately, John upgraded Drew's problem from script-kiddy prank, to major threat.

So, what did he have here?

_Point one_: Drew, after turning her backseven years ago, had suddenly called to ask for his help.

_Point two_: Someone had used her old hacker alias to write a few emails and torment WorldGov… intending to draw her out of hiding, maybe?

_Point three_: That person was now dead, shot to death at his grubby work station.

_Point four_: Drew, Anarchick, was no longer answering his messages, on any system at all, and Penny had mentioned experiencing 'difficulty', as well.

Was a pattern forming, there?

Deeming it wiser to keep International Rescue clear, John chose not to inform his father, or Scott. The events and people of his past were still a sore subject with Jeff Tracy, and probably always would be. If at all possible, John wanted to handle this himself, finding Drew and helping Penelope on his own. But, whatever he did, it was going to have to be quick.

Judging from the advanced condition of 'J. Random Hacker', over there, his unknown assailant was totally ruthless; an icy bastard who double-crossed his employees and had some sort of interest in John's past acquaintances. Well, he'd chosen to sniff around in the wrong back yard.

Unfortunately for the murderer (John visualized him as a powerful corporate-raider type) his activity had been discovered, and would soon be dealt with. Because John Tracy had lied to the victim computer; sometimes, he was very much _not_ a nice guy.


	60. Chapter 60: Preoccupation

Edited

**60: Preoccupation**

_Endurance, free return trajectory; another flight-deck night watch-_

He controlled a surge of something dark and ferocious, because he had to. Far too many lives depended now upon absolute, iron calm... when pretty much everything had gone wrong.

Time differential slowing his strikes… emergencies in deep space and on two separate continents… and a missing female that shouldn't have mattered so much.

_Damn it._

Back to business as time and schedule allowed. It was a rare computer that could transmit across 40 million miles of badly warped spacetime. One fast, sleek and stripped down. His own rig, the International Rescue boxes and certain high-speed government mainframes qualified, but NASA's did not, forcing John to choose his paths with great care.

Okay… his overripe hacker friend had almost certainly been set on the trail by someone else. So, find out who waited at the other end of the leash, and maybe find Drew.

Remotely accessing the attack box's registry and **irc** connection, John began tracking its click trail and messages. Who, besides WorldGov, had the hacker contacted? What sites had he visited, and why?

Turned out to be quite a sobering list:

Anarchick… at her InterBank cover address….

Princeton University….

NASA.gov….

About fifty pr0n sites…

… And a single, unsent message to International Rescue, asking for help and threatening blackmail.

John looked again through webcam eyes at the bloated thing revealed by shifting monitor light. He might have felt sorrier for the dead hacker if the guy hadn't so obviously been hired to track John, himself, down. Extending a little further, this meant that International Rescue was in danger, and possibly the mission, as well.

"Sucks to be you, mister," John muttered, when he was able to get back to searching (Scott had finally replied, and the solar panels needed reprogramming). "Should have made that final call, or found a safer street to play on."

Whatever, J. Random Hacker was well past answering questions. There _was_ that trusted server, though, which he could attempt to crack once the day's 10,000 course and vehicle maintenance details were seen to. Never an idle moment, in space. _(Like the movie put it: No one can hear you scream… because they don't have time.)_

At this point, John Tracy inhabited two worlds: a tense and distracted 'daytime' existence, and an energized, over-caffeinated nightscape. The others might have been concerned for him, but their pilot hardly noticed, for, bit and byte, things were falling into place.

The cracked server led to a 'misappropriated' government-issue computer; a bandwidth-hogging, extremely powerful rig operated by someone who had no business on the internet if he was going to leave _that_ many ports open. Of course… it might have been a 'honey pot'. John kept a few of those, himself. Nothing like a seemingly helpless computer in the hands of an apparent moron, to encourage and catalog exploits.

But this didn't have that feeling…

...And what he would have given, just then, for a cyberlink! Denice had the trick of making those, enabling direct interface with the world inside, adeeper look achievable no other way.

He'd have called her, but worry stayed his hand. What if, by hitting **irc** to Denice or Rick, John flushed them out of hiding as Drew had done to _him?_

No; for his friends' sake, better safe than jump too soon.

He recalled a certain rainy day, back in his Princeton dorm room. Drew had sat cross-legged on his bed. John lay on his back in a pair of jeans; an open ThinkPad balanced atop his chest and his head on the girl's lap. She'd taken a pack of fine-point markers out, and was carefully, intricately drawing upon his shoulders, chest and arms.

_(Because she didn't cut herself when she was able to 'graffiti' him, and it burned up nervous energy. He didn't mind. Tee shirts and long sleeves hid her art work until the ink wore off.)_

DNC was due back from class at any moment, but Rick was already at the computer, probing that weirdly autonomous web site. John tracked his progress wirelessly, typing out occasional messages on a private **irc** channel. Would have been just as easy, maybe, to speak across the whole five feet that separated them, but messaging was cooler.

"Hold still," Drew told him aloud, drawing trace lines, chips and solder dots all over the left side of his rib cage. Fortunately, he'd never really been ticklish, nor fully understood what the word even meant. His reply appeared on both screens.

_"Krypt0ni3n shrugs: ok"_

Naturally, this confused Rick, hunched like a fidgety meerkat in his beloved blue Cubs jacket.

"_Backslash punches K: jo, close a few apps D00d- ur losing it & she pwns ur 4$$" _

Uh-huh. Yet another early afternoon flame war in the making.

"_Krypt0ni3n punches back: STFU no she doesnt"_

Anarchick could see both screens from her upright position on the bed. She did not, however, have a keyboard of her own handy. As she completed drawing the characters for a particularly nasty virus, the girl said,

"Rick, if I have to go over there and I lose my flow, your face is going through a wall. Without help from quantum tunneling, either. Zip it."

_"Whutev,"_ Backslash replied, hastily dropping the subject. Wise move.

…And she did _not_ 'own' him. She just… mattered. He didn't mind being graffitied; he _did_ mind seeing her arms wrapped in strips of bloodied bed sheet. So, all she could do was open cans and heat strawberry pop-tarts… the fact that it was for him she did it still meant something. But…

"You're right, man," Backslash said aloud, disengaging from the cyberlink to look over one shoulder at John and Drew, "It _has_ gotten bigger. Like wireless coverage is spreading cyberspace outside of the boxes, or something. Looks to be organizing itself, too. Think anyone else could get in?"

With a murmured word to Drew, John put aside the laptop and got to his feet.

"Maybe," he allowed, as Anarchick followed him up to admire her handiwork, "if they had a cyberlink."

It was a major discovery, this flowering otherworld wilderness; one where any code you thought or typed out gave form to the bitstream void. One where duplicated funds might safely be hidden and rough designs given 3-D life.

John had been fascinated, pulling the others in for their own look at the brand new, self-assembling universe. There, every thought left a mark and each pod-cast or message created something that went bounding away through ethernet clouds. Eden, as discovered by four brilliant kids with nothing better to do than explore and code and meddle with other people's data.

Not that much had changed, 40 million miles and seven years later… except that they weren't together anymore, and John Tracy had promised never again to take up that shadow life.

The D.C. box yielded root access without too much difficulty. For all its evident power, the computer had not been well defended. Its primary user was listed as 'Mr. Black'. An obvious pseudonym, leading to the further aliases: 'Stirling' and 'Genovese'.

John smashed the files on these last two against the best decryption program he had. _Then,_ there was a meeting to attend with the rest of the crew, down in the ship's storm shelter/ lounge.

Too long. Blah, blah… health issues… _Endurance_… _Kuiper…_ Houston… and so forth. The fact that Pete had to three times recall his straying attention should have been warning enough that he was getting into trouble, but John was too deeply preoccupied to care. If those files held what he thought they did…

Roger Thorpe stopped him just outside the hatch, once the meeting broke up. The big Marine was responding well to his medications and recovering quickly, though he'd have to wait for an Earth-side clinic to fully regrow those missing parts.

"John," the combat engineer said to him, in English (another barely-heeded warning sign), "hold on a second. I need to talk to you."

John attempted to shrug away the bigger man's hand. Didn't work. So, he said,

"Roger, I don't have time for this. Later, once I've…"

"Uh-uh." The Marine's grip tightened bruising-hard against his shoulder. _"Now._ If I have to tie you to the bulkhead, you're gonna listen, John."

_Okay. You've got my attention._

Of course, he hadn't remembered to say this aloud, but Thorpe continued anyhow, his swarthy face clouded with worry.

"Maybe it isn't my place to say it, buddy, but you haven't talked to Linda in three days. Not more than shop stuff, anyway. _Hang on…!_ She hasn't been complaining, but she and Cho are close, and Kimmy told _me._ Dammit, John, what the hell's the matter with you?"

Thorpe gave him a quick shake (fortunately, he was braced against the hatch sill, or they'd have gone flying). Then, after a pause in which the Marine rubbed a partly-healed hand over his own scalp,

"You got problems somewhere else… okay. Do what you have to. But, AO', you take care of business at home, _first._ That's your kid in there, and your family up here! Get it? Good! Now, go make nice with the lady, or I'll beat the shit out of you. I'm serious as hell, and it's nothin' but love, man."

Okay. He was being threatened by a well-meaning amputee. John smiled for the first time in many days. Even made eye contact, briefly. Exhaustion hit, like a truck load of sand. Speaking mostly in Klingon and Samoan, John replied,

_"Very well. Advice considered. I will see to matters in the home cavern, and (wrestle/ subdue) my female."_

Roger grinned at him.

_"Good hunting,"_ he replied in kind. _"She is in a mood to take heads, that one."_

And so, after a pause at the sink to scrub a wet cloth against his migraine, John Tracy went forward to seek Linda.


	61. Chapter 61: Target Acquired

Re-edited... Thanks, ED, for the review and commentary. )

Oops... PS- _Mature Content_

**61: Target Acquired**

_Endurance-_

The locator screen on his wrist comm (which he'd taken to wearing again, full time) placed Linda in the ship's tool room. John propelled himself along with occasional kicks and handholds, soon reaching the cabin in question.

He wasn't certain why his wife would have gone there… it wasn't used to store med supplies or anything… but at least the tool room was private.

She was hovering by a mineral collection rack when John drifted up to the hatch. Doing nothing, at first, Linda reached blindly for the nearest checklist the instant she caught sight of him. And here was the weak point in his 'confront the neglected female' scenario; he had no idea how to begin operations. Start with 'hello', maybe?

From the hatch, he said,

"Um… Hey, Do… _Linda._ Got a minute?"

Very stiffly, not taking her reddened eyes from the checklist, she nodded. He gave himself a little push-off into the tool room. It wasn't a large space (about the size of an average mobile-home kitchenette) and mostly jammed with dusty mining equipment. Half the LEDs were out to conserve power, casting the cabin into twilit semi-gloom. John braked with a hand to the shovel and pick-axe shelf. It rattled slightly in protest, but Linda still wouldn't look up from her inverted list.

Well… what he knew about female emotions was pretty limited, but as Scott had once told him, _'when in doubt, apologize; even if you haven't the damndest notion what for'. Besides, _something else pointed out, _she always does this: goes off by herself to be emotional, and then comes out ready to reason a few hours later._

…And, yeah; it was his fault.

Bracing himself to prevent drift (or painful ricochet), John put a hand forth and caressed the top of her head. Brown, wavy hair sifted between the fingers of his left hand, which then stroked downward along the side of her pointed face; blushing cheek, sharp little chin.

"Okay. I'm sorry. I've been busy the last three days, but…"

"Your _other_ job?" she cut in, keeping an admirably level tone.

John nodded, pleased that she understood the situation.

"Yeah. Some complications have arisen back home that I'm still trying to sort out… and it's eating up a lot of memory. But I, um… didn't mean to ignore you."

She relaxed a little, unfolding her arms and looking up at him. There was something promisingly familiar about that expression…

John took the laminated checklist from her unresisting hands and pressed it back on its Velcro pad. Her brown eyes were wide, reflecting the pale LEDs and his own tall silhouette. Her breathing had changed, roughening slightly.

He pushed forward some; kissing first forehead then parted lips. That deepened after a moment as her arms went up and around his neck and she brushed close against him.

One hand remained on the shelf as an anchor, while the other moved slowly from face to shoulder to gently swelling breast. Beneath her blue tee-shirt he could feel the lace of a bra; one of those satiny half-things that he very much liked removing.

He had limited experience with wives, but assumed that it was still polite to ask, first. Ending the kiss, John pulled away a bit, just enough to give her a brief, questioning glance. Hot and confused as a first time conquest, she blushed. Right. All he'd needed to know…

His mouth went to her throat and then, through the cotton tee shirt, to her breast, which he softly, half-playfully bit at. She made a small noise and clutched at the back of his head, pulling him closer.

_(Still green across the board, then. So far: go flight.)_

Gone was the notion that this was only their second time, glossed by the memory of many previous touch-and-goes at this particular landing strip.

He slid a hand under the tee shirt, encountering smooth skin, gentle curves and a silken camisole; all the pleasant things typically wrapped up in a female surprise package.

Shifting targets, he went back to kissing her mouth, but kept his movements at first soft and exploratory.

_(It had been awhile, and he was just barely out from under the dark cloud of contamination. Proceed with caution.)_

Very gently, he pushed one side of the bra up and off, leaving his hand in its place. Slight squeeze, then, stroking with the thumb as the kiss went deeper. No ring there, or in her navel, either, but that had… _wrong female._

Her own hand groped downward and she began caressing him through the cloth of his exercise pants.

And she now had his absolute and undivided attention. The slim, moving hand felt very good, but what he _really _wanted was…

_…Not_ the ice-water buzz-kill shock of a wrist comm alert.

There were over 6,900 known human languages, most of them endowed with appallingly graphic curse words. John made an immediate, earnest attempt to recall and apply each one. Setting his wife aside, he released his grip on the tool shelf and brought his arm up for a glance at the comm screen.

General alarm, of the _'Guys, I'm in serious trouble, here,'_ variety… from Alan. Knowing that it was futile, that he was too far away to do any good, John Tracy pressed the response stud.

Linda, meanwhile, gazed at her extremely handsome, once more preoccupied husband, and realized two things:

_One_; that she was never, _ever_ going to come first, with him.

And, _two_; that she loved and needed John with a wild, aching ferocity, but was too proud to make a fool of herself over it.

Looking at her husband, Linda made a dispassionate catalog of attributes, while _he_ struggled with his watch to reach someone named 'goddam Alan'.

He'd lost weight again, but somehow managed to look as good as ever. Better, maybe, because he now had that slightly aloof _("You can feed me, if you want… not that I'm asking,")_ stray cat air about him. All silvery-blond hair, blue-violet eyes and chiseled features, damn it. It seemed altogether safer not to get too attached to someone like that, as his sort had a tendency to wander off at night on business of their own, and turn up dead on the road by morning.

Sighing, she readjusted her mussed clothing and decided to put herself back on schedule before Pete came looking. First, though, Linda slapped him on the rear, which sent John flying in one direction and her (faster) spiraling away in the other.

John caught himself and looked her way, saying,

"Sorry. New development at home. But, later… okay?"

_Sure thing, Sunshine_. His attention was back on the glowing watch face before she even had time to reply; nor did he seem to notice when she left the small tool room and drifted away.

Having no luck reaching Alan, John decided to check his computer's progress in cracking those files. Linda had gone off somewhere, probably returning to the med-lab to update her logs. Roger was up front, brainstorming power-down techniques with Pete. And Cho…was out in the galley.

Meaning that he had some time to visit his sleeping compartment and have a look at the busy laptop. So, back to the crew living quarters he went. Being somewhat paranoid, he'd hidden his decryption and cracking applications behind an innocuous-seeming desktop, and had to punch in several long codes to retrieve them. _(Closed the bunk curtain, too.)_

John stared at the results for a time, paging down in absolute, white-blank silence. 'Trouble' didn't even begin to cover it; for himself, for Autumn Drew, the mission and International Rescue.

Stirling and Genovese were assassins, as he'd suspected. They'd been hired by the Red Path to eliminate several marks, including his wife and crewmates. John himself was to be 'acquired' for interrogation… as Drew already had been. His father was scheduled for termination, and there were unnamed targets at Wharton, as well. The kids? Alan and Fermat?

John would have sworn that he felt nothing at all beyond a sort of red-edged, tunnel-vision nausea. But…

Okay, genius… plan and prioritize, come up with f-ing _something._ Some way to keep everything and everyone that mattered safe. Trouble was, he couldn't do it alone. Not from here.

International Rescue and _Endurance_ might not be the Red Path's primary objective… WorldGov had that signal honor… but the terrorists intended climbing over a mountain of broken bodies to get what they wanted: the end of civilization.

They had Autumn. _(She'd hated that name; claiming that it all but doomed her to be sad.)_ They were after _Endurance… _Linda and the baby… his family, friends and world. And their sleepers were already in place throughout the Earth and moon base, poised for a massive, coordinated strike. One wrong message, one hint that they'd been discovered, and the plot would go forth, each cell acting on the coded instructions of a quietly murdered courier.

John had thought to himself, not long before, that he would sell his soul to defend wife and daughter.

What had she said…? That she'd rather work _with_ him than against him? Yeah. Shoving all the jagged pieces back into place, John called Penelope.


	62. Chapter 62: Fast Forward

Finally able to further re-edit! Sorry to take so long... And thanks, ED and Tikatu

**62: Fast Forward**

_Endurance-_

He was no judge of other people's reactions, but Lady Penelope hadn't sounded very upset. _Or_ surprised.

In response to his cautiously worded query, she'd said (nearly two weeks later),

_"Why of course, Darling! A holiday together would be most enjoyable. In Troy, perhaps? Or Knossos? A mere five days hardly seems enough, does it? I am ever so excited, John. Will you be a dear, and make our travel arrangements? If you contact the Hotel Imperial in Crete after the summer press, our private landing and beach will be assured. Do ring back soon. I've simply nothing of interest in Foxlyheath Manor to sustain me until your next call, and I shall be all attention. Je fin, I suppose… though, trust me, very much eager to see you again, love." _

He listened through, once, then replayed the message, applying the filter she'd steganographically uploaded.

_'I will make contact after landing/ Do nothing to call attention/ Trust (me?)_

Right. She'd screwed up on the last part, trying to squeeze two words in… but the sense got through, regardless.

So… Five days till landing, from the Earthside perspective, and an unknown expanse from that of _Endurance._ Until then, he was to lie low and await contact, trusting that her 'Trojan and labyrinth' plot would come off. Well and good… but it never hurt to have a back-up plan, or six.

Very much, he wanted to call Scott; find a way to warn his older brother that would at once be understandable _and_ secure. Tall order. Only one thing came to mind, and it was pretty scatter-shot.

Sending another message to Thunderbird 1 (which Scott seemed to have taken up permanent residence in), he replied to:

_'Hey, John. Status report?'_

With…

'You know how it is, Scott: _All quiet on the Western Front_. And I imagine pretty much the same over there.'

And then, because his youngest brother had still not replied…

'Alan okay?'

Didn't dare add any obvious key words such as 'red', 'crimson', 'scarlet', 'path', 'trail' or 'road'…. But maybe Scott would figure things out. In any case, he _had_ to make an effort at warning the family. They couldn't be allowed to stumble into this disaster identified and blindfolded.

Nor was this all that went on. In the weeks that John waited for Lady Penelope's answer, two things of note occurred. One was the supply and fuel-core pass off from _Kuiper_ to _Endurance_; critical, because on a long free-return trajectory they were using many more consumables than a powered crossing would have required. Had things gone as originally planned, _Endurance_ would not have launched until after the arrival of her ESA sister ship. But trouble had struck, maiming Roger Thorpe, burying John Tracy alive and forcing the mission commander to scrap their flight plan.

In any event, having been chased off of Mars, they would now rendezvous with _Kuiper_ 28 million miles from Earth. There were a few major issues with this plan, one of which was simply bringing the two ships together.

Besides the unknown warping event, spacetime was crumpled like a bed sheet into ridges, peaks and folds by the gravity of the Sun and Jupiter. Space travel was easier, used less fuel, along the 'down hill' folds. The Mars-to-Moon corridor was one such valley; the spacetime equivalent of the 'scenic route'. _Kuiper_lay on the interstate, eight lanes over and racing away in the opposite direction; a rendezvous challenge resolved by Hackenbacker,Tracyand Houston, with John's laptop and the NASA disk farms working most of the calculations.

Long before the actual encounter, John and Pete were suited up and back in their launch positions, while Roger stood ready to man the robot arm, and the doctors retreated to _Endurance's_ storm shelter. Linda was becoming too bulky to strap into a seat or don a survival suit. NASA simply hadn't planned on a second trimester astronaut, and there was no other safe place to put her.

Up front, pilot and commander re-engaged thruster control, cleared disk-space and input the guidance program, John thinking wistfully of the AI he'd apparently hallucinated back on Mars.

_(Imagine a portable quantum computer smart enough to make decisions on its own; able to run more than just four complex applications at a time without getting hosed. Have to keep working on that, he supposed…)_

They went through one checklist after another, testing each relevant system long before making rendezvous. Sort of a rhythm arose. Point and counterpoint. McCord's sharp query and Tracy's brief response, familiar as Mass, or a seven-year-old's long ago bedtime prayer.

Two balking thrusters required immediate Marine Corps maintenance, Roger's specialty. Got _that_ sorted out, and then the port-side cargo bay door didn't want to respond. Yeah. Life was good.

Once more, though, Roger came through. (John suspected that he'd simply pounded and cursed the door's motor into submission. Whatever. He got the job done.)

The cargo arm, by contrast, performed beautifully; had there been a second one, _Endurance_ could have dealt five-card stud. John made a mental note to kiss each and every (female) Jet Propulsion Lab engineer, then went on to the next hundred-and-fifty vital matters.

Weirdly, _Kuiper_ hardly seemed to be moving. The way that Earth and the Moon appeared frozen in mid-circuit, the ESA ship pushed through space like a dull needle through heavy leather.

Pete paused in his distance-to-target litany.

"This one of those Lorentz effects?" He asked.

Watching the long-range scanner, John nodded absently.

"Ninety-percent certain that's affirm, Pete, but I'll be able to say for sure in… 5.32 hours."

They were still pretty far out, with communications from _Kuiper_ being spotty and slow. But time passed in its various coy ways, and they at last hove within visual range of _Kuiper._ She hung there like a silvery dragonfly, larger than _Endurance, _and three-quarters engine, with the tiny, glinting speck of a supply pod close at her side… Earth and Moon glowingin the far background. Beautiful sight, if they'd had the time to appreciate it.

"Lock visors," Pete commanded, followed by, "switching to suit life support… fire reverse thrusters 1 and 2, for a ten-second burn…_now:_10… 9… 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… thruster cut-off." (Roar and vibration giving way to still, silent peace.) "Confirm holding position… Position confirmed… _and_ open cargo doors."

A few distorted miles away, on the maiden-voyage-tidy flight deck of _Kuiper_, Irina Porizkova held her breath. She had commanded much the same things, with only the added concern that _Endurance_ appeared to be hurtling for her ship at insane, impossible speeds.

As planned, she'd waited for visual contact to release the supply pod:

"Devyat… vosem… sem… shest… pyat… chetyve… tri… dva… Odin! _Release!" _

…Even though earlier contact from _Endurance_ indicated that the Americans had somehow already acquired her cargo. _Kuiper's_ collision alert and master alarms buzzed loud and harsh as a base-attack drill. She ordered them cut off, but refused to change course until the supply pod was well away.

And still _Endurance _came on like meteor; her gravitational wake bending light from stars behind. Beside her, Gospodin Markov keyed up the micro-thrusters, his dark eyes narrowed with tension.

"Piotr, Ivan, too quickly you are coming…" she murmured. "You will not catch, but collide with supply pod. My friends, slow yourselves."

_'A chicken is not a bird, and a woman is not a person,'_ perhaps; but as mission commander, the decisions were hers to make (all the more so as communication with Baikonur and Moskva became ever less reliable.)

But Piotr Kordovich and Vanya were _not_ slowing, nor responding, either, except in large mass of messages which became unreadable after first two clicks.

"Gospodina…?" Markov asked, his hand taut upon the controls of main thruster.

"We wait."

Piotr was a dear friend (and once, more than that), young Vanya adorable to pinch and tease. Not until last moment would CDR Porizkova turn away from them.

Then came the instant when both vessels occupied the same 'slice' of spacetime, and all at once, momentarily, gained full contact.

On the flight deck of _Endurance,_ the comm screen flashed up. No static or fuzziness at all; just Irina Porizkova's bony, concerned face behind the thick, curving glass of her helmet.

_"Endurance, Kuiper,"_ she was saying, "there is not margin for safety with such… _Piotr!"_

For, miraculously, the NASA ship had shed nearly all of its vast, reality-blurring momentum, slowing suddenly from glowing blur to corroded arrow-head.

"You are very much welcome sight, my old friend!"

(John, she winked at.)

"Same here, sweet thing," McCord's grin was wide and reminiscent. "Sorry we couldn't get together in beautiful downtown Argyre… but thanks for the care package."

From their temporal 'angle', the motionless supply pod had just been retrieved; plucked deftly from space by Roger Thorpe's powerful cargo arm. From _Kuiper's_ perspective, it had simply vanished. Both ships were still moving, and would soon pass from easy hailing range, but what shared time they had was wisely employed.

"Roll vessel, Vanya, and we shall image for you the breach."

"Roger that, Commander," John replied, triggering thrusters 2 and 4. "Initiating 90-degree starboard roll."

Pictures were taken and sent, warnings and information exchanged. The full mission flight log of _Endurance_ was transmitted to _Kuiper_, whose goal remained Mars.

"We go now to build upon what you have begun," Porizkova told them, doing her level best not to tear up (like many Russians, she was very emotional). "Keep us, my friends, in your prayers, and lift many glasses for success of mission, as we for your safe return."

Commander McCord nodded. Sometimes… once past the old flame stage… former lovers made the best and most trustworthy of allies.

"Day and night, beautiful. And just as soon as I can hijack command of another prime crew, I'll be there to join you."

She laughed.

"Very well. I am… eh… _'holding you in that_', Piotr… and Vanya, also. Go with God's peace."

Then there was static, and a sleekEuropean spear of a ship vaulting away as crazy-fast as _Endurance _had seemed to arrive. John had a sudden bad feeling, which he did his best to quell.

Other than her constant pats and innuendo (which he'd become quite adept at redirecting), Gospodina Porizkova was a good person. He wished her, and _Kuiper,_ well.

With collision no longer a concern, Commander McCord gave the 'all clear' for helmet and glove removal, whereupon the comm became a 3-way party line. Had to get everyone quiet again to transmit their status to the 'receiving station' (Thunderbird 1, actually, though no one was openly calling it that).

"Good job, Tracy," Pete remarked afterward, unstrapping to leave the deck. "Nice to see you focused up and hauling your weight, again."'Cause, for awhile there..." The mission commander grinned again, "you were pretty f-ing worthless."

Fair enough. But John _had_ been able to broaden his focus lately, because four separate irons were slowly reddening in the Earthside fire, each prepared for a different aspect of the business to come. Not just Penny; sneaky as ever, John had fail-safes to his backups to his 'just in case's. (Plus a few wildcard contingency plans.)

He, too, unstrapped and rose, gliding smoothly up and away from his seat.

"Thanks, Pete. I do my humble best."

McCord snorted, seized the back of John's neck and gave him a fond shake.

"Humble, my ass. And why you didn't join the Navy I _still_ can't figure out."

John shrugged apologetically. Pete had given all three of the elder Tracy boys recruitment literature for each oftheir christenings and subsequent birthdays.

"I don't look good in white, and I've never been into that _'Sir, yes Sir!'_ shit. Sorry."

McCord sighed.

"Too bad. You'd have made a damn fine Naviator, Tracy."

Back to business, though.

"Okay. Visit the head, get us back on course and keep a listen out for MCC's reply. They're probably shitting themselves, over there."

No doubt.

There was a line outside the bathroom (7 hours strapped in and suited up would do that to you, as would pregnancy). John drifted up behind Linda, who turned a little sideways to snug herself against him. Automatically, he reached out to steady them, one arm around his wife, handcovering her faintly moving belly. She could have cut to the front of the line, but refused to pull pregnancy any more than she would have abused rank.

"How's it going, Doctor?" He inquired, wondering if Junior could hear him. Everyone had an opinion on the name issue. This was officially Roger's week to choose, and he'd selected 'Hokulea'… Star of Hope. Better than 'Elvis', at least… especially since all that John had come up with each week was 'Jane'.

"Mmmm…" Linda replied sleepily, eyes closed, face nestled against his chest. "Ask me again in five months, Sunshine."

She was tired a lot, lately, and had gone sort of puffy.

"You'll be okay," he told her. "You kind of got… I mean… you'll probably feel better in your last trimester."

"I hope so," Linda whispered, too exhausted to jump on his time lapse.

_'John…?'_

He was floating there, embracing a curled-up wife, when something seemed to… touch him. Pale and faint as Eurydice in the shadows, TinTin's voice combed through his mind.

He'd have thought he was going crazy (-er), except that he _saw_ her, reaching from the distant end of a very long tunnel, asking something about Russian. But how…?

The fact that his head hurt, that Hackenbacker and Linda's combined drugs left him much weaker than he let on, slowed John's responses. The contact smeared like a handprint drawn along an endless mirrored hall.

_She… it was the Oriental girl; French accent. The one who'd patched him up back on… _

Two days, then three. He was intensely aware of TinTin's presence in his about-to-burst head. For three days he blundered into bulkheads, had difficulty concentrating and kept trying to speak Russian. She needed his help; but, again… too far.

When it ended, when the mountain of _anxious-confused-m'aidez_ pressure was at last rolled away, John lost consciousness. Another item that Linda 'forgot' to note in her edited med log and everyone else seemingly missed. After all, a pilot with fainting spells was no worse than a pregnant doctor, an amputee engineer or a pre-cancerous mission commander. Like everything else, they'd deal with it in-house.

...And the child was born in due time; a healthy, very beautiful and amazingly alert baby girl.


	63. Chapter 63: Pop Up

Sorry for all the confusion. (And thanks, Tikatu, for pointing out the typo!)

**63: Pop Up**

_Endurance-_

The method and time had been decided well in advance. On Monday, 27 May 2067, Linda Bennett-Tracy was delivered of a full term baby girl by laser Cesarean Section. (Earth weight 7 pounds, 3 ounces... 21 and-a-half inches long.)

Kim Cho performed the procedure, with Pete McCord assisting; the entire operation taking a scant 52 minutes, excluding anesthesia. Roger Thorpe stood a nervous flight deck watch and updated Houston. John Tracy stayed on the patient's side of the procedure screen, keeping his drugged wife company.

Others might have experienced things differently, but what the pilot chiefly recalled was floating there beside Linda's green-capped head, hearing the laser scalpel hum and pop, listening to Cho's terse commentary and Roger's transmitted questions.

_(The Marine was far more nervous than John, or the medical personnel back in Mission Control.)_

The father-to-be wielded a suction instrument with quiet professionalism, capturing the few airborne blood drops that escaped their glowing containment field. Hetried not to sneeze at the sharp smell of iodine, and did his best to follow Linda's strange, confused ramblings.

(Something about whether spaghetti or pencil erasers made a better lure for purple killer whales. Okay.)

Every so often, John remembered to nod, but she'd have gone on regardless, probably. Then came the moment when the baby was lifted free of blood, amnion, retracted flesh and containment field; out of warmth and darkness and into reality.

Dr. Kim handed her off to Pete, who stood sideways on a bulkhead Velcro pad with a receiving towel.

"About damn time!" The mission commander said, not very gruffly.

She was disinfected and vacuumed dry. Began to cry when the cold iodine solution hit her reddish skin, and a tiny RFID chip was implanted. The sound… a thin, wavering sob… snapped Linda right out of her drugged haze.

_"The baby…!"_ She whispered to John. "Get the baby, please! I can't move…"

Her panic was real, causing Linda's heart monitor to begin beeping just as the little one's med icon popped up beside hers. John stroked the top of his wife's head, saying,

"Wait here."

…then seized the neck of an extensible operating theatre light and heaved himself around the screen to face Cho and the mission commander. Moments later (before he was actually _ready_) the blanketed infant was thrust upon him by Pete.

"Mazletov. Now, go away. We're busy."

And they were, too. The other half of Linda was a mess, and he could surely have done without the sight of red-purple organs and blood-smeared retractors. They did get the alarm cut off, though. That was something.

Next, back to the less gory side of the procedure screen, where the tidier aspects of his wife waited to meet her child, the cause of all this fuss. The baby had warmed enough by now to stop crying, which only served to further panic Linda. John quickly brought the infant into her mother's line of sight, close enough so that his wife could kiss her exposed, pensive little face.

Inside him, something pushed very hard against its walls, but he quelled it. Too much going on. Instead, John watched andhe listened.

" 'Lo…!" Linda whispered. "_Hi, _Sweetie! I know… look differen' from out here… but is me, Baby-girl… i's mommy."

Now exhaustion and drugs took over, dragging an unwilling mother toward dense, black unconsciousness.

_"John…?"_ Her brown eyes were already closing.

"Yeah," he replied, putting a hand to her cold cheek so she'd know he was still there… like he'd done in Persia for Dr. Afshar.

"Stay wi'… 'er. Don'… let…"

"Understood," he cut in, to spare her the anguish of further concern.

And then, with his wife out, Roger bellowing update requests from the flight deck, and everyone else occupied, it was just him and Junior.

He began with the edges, noting pale blonde hair and a compact overall configuration bounded by the tightly-swaddled towel. Unformatted, obviously; with big, puzzled blue eyes. John vaguely recalled despising the confusion and helplessness of babyhood, himself.

"Yeah. _Um_… Hey. You're new here… so I guess I'll fill you in until your mom's back online."

The baby… his daughter… blinked; trying to focus blurry visuals on the source of a (probably) familiar voice.

"Don't worry about that. As I understand it, vision sort of debugs itself in a couple of weeks… but I'll admit to not having read the manual."

She yawned… like a rescued tabby kitten full of smuggled milk… except that he wasn't allergic to _this_ one. Something shifted around a little, clearing memory for a new relationship. But, another part of him already understood. He pulled her just abit closer and kissed the tiny girl's forehead, saying,

"Hello again, Baby-doll."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She flew before she could walk; learning to push off of people or surfaces and tug at her tether to move around in the weightless little world. Except for playtime in the padded cubicle made by her Uncle Roger, Kara Jane-Ellen Tracy was nearly always attached by mini-harness to _someone. _Five someones…

Mommy: provider of milk, kisses and contentment. Fast responder to cries and confusion.

Daddy: father/creator. Always busy, but never upset when she grabbed at his hair to pull herself along and stare at the screen or paper.

Uncle Pete: who made a ball for her out of rags and duct tape, taught her to catch… and quickly learned to watch his language.

Auntie Cho: endlessly patient, always willing to play _'where's Janey?' _or fix a snack.

Uncle Roger: funny. Maker of toys and not-for-real Marine tattoos.

For the first eighteen months of Junior's life, these people were all she knew; a creaking, rumbling ship and constant checklists her whole world.

She learned not to touch. That, just like her family, each button or switch had a sometimes dangerous job. She would ask questions.

"Why Unca Pete sick?" _('Out in the sun too long.')_

"Why Daddy busy?" _('Lots going on, trying to write an invisible RFID virus. Any ideas?')_

"Why Unca Roger got one leg short?" _(Different answer every time, always funny and scary.)_

"Why Janey little than ever'body?" _('New system, still gaining applications. Give it time.')_

"What's Moon? What's Earth?" _('Where we're going.')_

"Why?" _('Because it's home.')_

She had jobs, too: feed Lucky, put fish food for Thing One and Thing Two. Don't eat the fish food. Or Lucky's, not even. They need it!

She could sometimes talk to flat picture-people on the big, big screen… but they didn't come out to play with her. There were movies… the best was 'Star Wars', but 'The Yearling' was good, too, because Mommy would always watch with her and cover her eyes on the scary part.

Uncle Roger made a harness and springy strap for her to push hard off the deck (for her legs), and a rope to pull on to touch the bulkhead (for her arms)… so she could be strong.

She learned to eat food like a big girl, and if she had to go potty, _tell someone._

Daddy's computer had fun games in it. He taught her to code _'Hello_ _World'_ in Python _and_ Steel. She liked that, but she mustn't open the 'Inkblot' and 'Bit-storm' files. Not ever, because that was for later, at home.

She slept with Mommy and Daddy, waking (and sometimes going along) when one of them left the bed to stand watch. That was her world, and it was a happy one. Everybody loved her, even when they got mad.

People on the movies did strange things. She didn't really understand the 'trees' or 'cars'.

_(Sort of like Auntie Cho's herb garden, Daddy said, but bigger; cars were like the ship, kind of, but on a flat "road", and not so fast… But she still didn't understand.)_

And they went _outside_, where it was dangerous to _kill_ you with no air…! Janey always covered her eyes when movie people opened the hatch, because that was _bad._ Mommy and Daddy would _never_ do that. Uncle Roger and Auntie Cho would never do that. Uncle Pete would _sure_ never do that, because he didn't want to fry his a… ("_Sorry bad word, Mommy!"_)

Kara Jane-Ellen Tracy did not really believe in those movie people, or in 'home', either. But then they got to the Moon… where everything happened bad: she was too weak to play, she could not fly, the flat people came out with guns, and Daddy went away.


	64. Chapter 64: Debrief

Moreedits are on their way.

**64: Debrief**

_Tracy Island-_

Thunderbird 1 landed first, plunging to Earth through the cooling wind and brilliant colors of late afternoon. The island below grew from dim flyspeck to volcanic stronghold, alive withpounding surf and creeping foliage.

Announced by screaming sirens and startled birds, the lower pool drained and then rumbled away beneath its reinforced deck, revealing Thunderbird 1's flood-lit lair. Almost home…

Scott keyed up the landing computer before gimbaling his aircraft, converting Thunderbird 1 from horizontal flight mode to vertical. As the island view was replaced by untroubled sky, a series of glowing rings appeared on-screen, leading down to the targeted '**X'** that marked his landing site. Thunderbird 1 showed above it as a silvery dart.

So: keep the rings over the '**X', **then slide the dart through the rings. Simple, and at a time like this, vital; for Scott Tracy had some time ago taken a left turn past 'fatigue' and off into 'stumbling exhaustion'. (Of course, the kids back in the storage compartment were even worse off... Long, nearly disastrous day.)

Following the promptings of his guidance computer, still fretting over John's last messages, Scott cut engine power and switched to quarter impellers. Time to put his Bird to bed. Down they went, descending through kissing-soft air and into a high-tech silo, abandoning daylight for concrete and steel and scurrying 'bots.

Thunderbird 1's engines died away as she settled into her hangar, touching down with the slightest of thumps. The sound quality changed, becoming more reverberant, steamy and clashing. Overhead, the pool rumbled back into place like the Moon eclipsing Earth's sun.

Scott heaved a tired sigh and rubbed at his temples. Not a perfect landing, maybe, but far better than the last two. Unstrapping, he shambled to his feet, yawning hugely.

...Heard Gordon and TinTin organizing the others for evacuation to Brains' medical lab. With Alan's subdural hematoma and Fermat's hypothermia (not to mention a seriously poisoned Virgil) Hackenbacker was going to be a very busy man.

Scott stifled another yawn, removed his cap and blue uniform sash and crumpled them into a trouser pocket. Then he went aft to help Gordon, wending his way past a displaced pile of loosely-secured gear.

The red haired swimmer was his youngest brother but one, and occasionally quite rowdy. Not now, though. Still in medic-mode, Gordon was being serious; especially with Alan, who apparently wanted to _walk_ to the clinic.

_"No," _Gordon snapped, blocking his injured brother's path to the open loading hatch. "You're goin' to set your arse on that grav cart, or have me save _everyone _a lot of bother by killin' you m'self!"

Young Fermat was already aboard his own stretcher, wrapped in blankets and breathing pre-warmed air from a medicated tank. _He_ wasnt't the problem.

"Alan, _sit."_ The oldest Tracy brother commanded. "We don't have time for your crap, right now."

A few faint snuffles, and then…

"Fine. Whatever."

Grudgingly, still clutching a bloodied pad to the side of his head, Alan complied. The grav cart bobbed a little in mid air, adjusting to his weight, then settled itself.

Gordon helped his brother to stretch out, arranging a pillow for the younger boy's stitched and shaven head. Next came a woolen blanket, with a great deal of inconsequential 'chin up, Mate,' sort of talk.

TinTin, meanwhile, saw to Fermat. (More or less; actually, the girl seemed pretty distracted. Hormones?)

The five of them next left Thunderbird 1's storage compartment, stepping out through the hatch and onto a self-assembling steel gantry, with the grav carts floating along ahead.

Gordon didn't look all that well, himself… altitude sickness, probably. Scott was just about to suggest a visit to Hackenbacker, when the hangar's whooping arrival klaxon sounded. Thunderbird 2 was on final approach.

"Quick," Scott urged Gordon and TinTin, hurrying them through the busy hangar complex. "Get these two down to the medical lab. I'll fill dad in; you guys clean up and get some rest. We'll be launching again in less thana day, and you need to be ready."

Gordon's broad shoulders slumped, briefly, but he pulled himself together.

"Right, then," he responded, managing to sound cheerful. "I'll just have a bit of a wash and somethin' to eat, then report upstairs."

Scott smiled and gave his brother a deeplyapproving back slap.

"I recommend some sack-time, too, if you can manage it, Gordon… and maybe a visit to Brains; get yourself checked up."

He stepped around a stalled cleaning mech, turning sideways to help Gordon and TinTin maneuver their grav-carted patients.

"I meant what I said, back on the mountain. You did good up there. You too, TinTin… looks like we'll make an operative out of you, yet."

The girl's dark eyes dropped to the pierced-metal deck at her feet, but a small, pleased smile played about her mouth, just the same.

"Merci, Scott. I was not alone in this action, however; Fermat was indispensable and Alain…"

"Got his head bashed in by Robby the Robot." Alan sulked, not bothering to open his eyes. He was quite evidently in need of reassurance, so TinTin said,

"Alain strove very much to defend us, _and_ to save the trapped bus driver. He was attacked unaware, or the cyborg would surely not have so easily prevailed."

Curled up on his side, covered with shame and ascratchy blanket, Alan opened one bleary eye.

"Thanks, T," he said to her, adding, "you really did kick butt out there… even if nobody knows _how_."

No one but Gordon and Fermat, anyway. More might have been said; questions asked, possibly, but a calm, artificial voice interrupted their conversation, announcing,

_'Thunderbird 2 in main hangar. All clear.'_

They'd reached the doors to the lab complex by this time, and there Scott left them.

"Guys, you're on your own. I'm going to help Brains get Virge out of 2, then debrief with dad. Take care."

Strictly speaking, he should probably have gone directly to Jeff Tracy, but Scott wanted to see for himself that Virgil was alive and on the mend. Cyanide gas was pretty high on his list of _'avoid like hell'_ substances, and for Virgil to survive a close brush with the stuff seemed nothing short of miraculous.

So, yawning with every third or fourth step, Scott hurried through an access hatch, along a dim maintenance tunnel, and into 2's echoing, cliff-side hangar. When empty, the place seemed every bit as large as Carlsbad Caverns. Now, though, it was dominated by the ponderous form of Thunderbird 2.

She crouched amid golden spot lights, as brooding-exhausted as something returned from a long hunt; crawling with service bots and emitting short, steamy grumbles. If she'd had a head, she'd have tucked it under one massive wing.

Shaking away the fancies andunwonted mental cobwebs, Scott climbed stairs and crossed a second gantry, picking up his pace. He was about halfway there when 2's crew hatch swung open. Brains backed through the oval hatchway with many over-the-shoulder glances, hauling a laden grav cart. Virgil.

Like his cargolifter, the big pilot needed maintenance. Scott loped the last few yards, wasting energy that he really didn't have; his rapid, heavy footfalls nearly lost amid all the mechanical hubbub and clamor.

"Hey," he panted, giving Brains a friendly nod.

Virgil lay still upon the floating stretcher, but his brown eyes were open. Under the breathing mask, he managed a pale, flickering smile.

" 'S goin' on, Scott…?" Virgil asked, breaking almost at once into aspate of fierce, ragged coughing.

"Uh-uh. Shut the hell up, mister."

Scott sounded severe, but he was smiling.

"For the next couple of days, I'm getting the first, last and _only_ words. Got it?"

His brother nodded. Smudged, bruised, poisoned and weak, but alive; thanks to the Chilean Fire Department, and Brains.

"If y- you're, ah… you're quite _through,_ Scott?" Hackenbacker hinted, fiddling with his spectacles. Rather anxious to get to his son, the engineer had no patience for delays. Understandable.

"Sure, Brains. Sorry. Just… wanted to check, is all."

Hackenbacker shifted his stance, temporarily releasing the grav cart.

"I d- don't candy-coat s- situations, Scott. Had your, ah… your brother's c- condition changed, I w- would have, ah… have informed you."

Great. First dad and now Brains. Batting zero today, popularity-wise.

Oh, well. Time enough to improve his public image, later. Scott let them go, then squared his shoulders, cut back across the busy hangar, and caught a lift to his father's office.

There was a silver tray of finger sandwiches on the sideboard, together with dark, rich coffee and sugar-crusted pastries. Torn between formality and food, Scott shook his father's hand, replied,

"Thank you, Sir,"

…when Jeff Tracy welcomed him home, and _then_ began to eat.

The first four sandwiches he hardly chewed, much less tasted. His father watched for a moment, then shook his grey head and went off to fetch the claret decanter and a couple of crystal tumblers.

The fifth turned out to be Bavarian ham on crust-less rye, with just a touch of hot mustard. The sixth was cream cheese and raspberry jam. Dense, smoky coffee washed it all down, clearing the way for more.

"Have a seat, son," his father instructed, indicating a fire-side armchair. Then,

"There _are_ plates, you know."

Sure. And he could have eaten them, too; for the roughage. On the other hand, using Kyrano's fine china, he could carry more food.

Truthfully, the entire female cast of _'Bay Watch: Live'_ could have been doing a saucy kick line across his father's office, and Scott would still have found true love in bread, cold cuts and scalding coffee. …By contrast with John, who would have stopped eating long enough to appreciate the show. Speaking of which…

"I've b…" (Pause, to swallow before he choked) "…been in touch with John, Sir. Connection wasn't one hundred percent secure, because it's routed through InterplaNet, so he couldn't be very open, but the impression I get is that this Red Path problem is about to turn even bigger and uglier. Not just random attacks on us and WorldGov.He…"

Jeff's mouth thinned and he held up a silencing hand.

"Scott, I'll bemore than happyto listen to your impressions in a moment... but, for the record,your brother needs to start telling me these things _himself. _I can't very well make informed decisions if I keep learning things second or third hand, dammit!"

The older man seemed more deeply disturbed than Scott would have expected. Maybe there was something _else_ bothering him?

"You, uh… found out about the baby, I take it?"

Jeff gave him a single, icy nod.

"Yes, I did; from Gene Porter, of all people, as part of a damn'mission update'. It appears that I have a son who won't follow the chain of command, and an out-of-wedlock grandchild, _both_ in danger from an organization no one in high office seems able to come to grips with!"

Jeff sighed, raked a hand through his hair, and then poured out two tumblers of well-aged claret.

"Now. Let's hear the rest of this news your brother feels I can't handle."

_Phew._ This wasn't going to be simple. Scott took a small, warming sip of wine, but set his drink aside immediately thereafter. He needed a clear head.

"Okay, dad. It's like this: I believe he's uncovered a massive Red Path conspiracy, and has some kind of plan to deal with…"

_"Some_ kind?" Jeff Tracy cocked a bushy grey eyebrow. In that expression… and a certain mulish stubbornness… he and John were much alike.

"Well… he couldn't go into detail over the comm, but I think he's setting something up in the way of a computer strike, and that he…" (Deep breath) "…intends to get himself captured."

Now, the former astronaut set his empty tumbler down. No… on second thought, he poured himself another.

"Hoping they'll be foolish enough to take him straight to the head man?" he snapped, while words like _'double-dealing'_, _'under-handed'_ and _'dumb-ass'_ blasted through his head.

Jeff Tracy was tired, and he was worried. Long ago, he'd lost a wife and given away a baby son. Now he seemed about to lose John, and a grandchild he might never have a chance to see, or hold.

"Your brother…"

"Can be a loose cannon, I know," Scott cut in, needing once again to defend an absent trouble-maker. "But that quirky thinking of his has saved us more than once, in the past. I'll try to talk to him, but that's… it's as hard as talking to _you,_ dad. And he listens about as well!"

_Touché._ Jeff nodded stiffly, and finished his second drink. Something about his eldest son had changed, and Jeff wasn't at all sure how to deal with it.

"Right," the proud CEO said at last. "And… what exactly does he need in the way of support, for this 'master plan' of his?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Later, in the downstairs medical lab-_

Alan's physical condition had turned a corner, but emotionally he remained an adolescent mess; detailing for himself all of the many ways that life sucked.

A: He _hadn't_ managed to rescue a really cool brother.

2: He'd been, like, _useless_ in Siberia. _TinTin_ had done better work, for gosh' sakes!

Next: His mom had told him that she and dad were for sure getting married again. Yeah, that was gonna last!

And, topping the list: the boy's head was killing him.

Life was stupid, marriage was retarded, and he rescued people about as good as he crocheted fuzzy wool sweaters. He'd have gone on and on in this miserable, self-pitying vein, but all at once Alan's wrist comm beeped. _Now_ what?

Huh! The message bin was, like, totally full. Weirder still, every one of the voice mails was from John. Not repeats, either, 'cause the lengths were all different. What the heck did 'Buzz Lightyear' want? To point and laugh? Yeah. Sure. He was gonna stick his neck _riiiiight_ out there and open up the 'emails of doom'.

Yet… Alan was by himself in a hospital bed. Gordon was off emptying the kitchen of everything not red-hot, nailed down or moldy (probably had Kyrano tied up in a corner, or something…). TinTin had wandered away with Grandma, and Fermat was talking on the phone with his mom (which brought up another sore point: namely, where the heck was his _own _mother? It was, like, her _duty _to be down here, making with the goodies and comfort. _Chicks!)_

Fine, then. He'd check out what was cracking Iceman's berg. Nothing better to do…

Alan raised the head of his bed with an ill-tempered button jab. Then he pressed the receive stud on his wrist comm and settled back against the pillows that TinTin had fluffed for him.

"Hey." John's voice, sounding about as excited as a 3-days corpse. "I got your alert, Alan. Scott tells me you're okay, but I wanted to check in, see how you're handling things. Call me back when you get a chance. Out."

_John…?_ Wanted to _talk…?_ To _him?_ Hah-hah. Very funny. _Had_ to be some kind of joke… except that his second-oldest brother had been, like, clinically proven to have NO sense of humor. Zip. _Nada._ Dry well. Might as well go fishing for sharks in a jar of pickles. Still…

"Okay. I'll bite." He pressed the response stud.

" 'Sup, John? I'm in therapy for a sub-doofal hemoglobin, or something. Thanks for asking. Uh… Yeah. So… how's space, an' junk?"

Alan was all set to wait for a reply message. Then he remembered that the voice-mail bin was full, so he hit the next message. Strangely, it was a response; like John already knew what he was going to say. Spooky, _for real_.

"It's busy. More shit being thrown than the fan has blades for."

_Hey! Was that, like, actually a joke?_

John continued.

"But I'm glad to hear that your head survived the, um… 'hemoglobin'. I've had a few medical ups and downs myself, recently, so… whatever."

_So, you know how I feel, retard. Geez…! Get a vocabulary!_

Exasperated, Alan replied facetiously,

"Aww… you love me! You really, really _love _me! I'm maximally choked up, over here, for real… But if you actually want to, like, speed my recovery, how 'bout getting back online and updating your character? Gordon and Fermat are waiting for you at the tavern, and you _know_ how Gordon's barbarian gets! Give him that much time and he'll get caught with the mayor's wife, or something. And then you'll all get thrown in the town lock-up, again. Dude: make like a hero and update Male Elf! Get his butt back to Birchwood!"

Alan was agitated enough to raise his voice at this last, causing a white-hot spear of headache to lance through his skull. John's reply, next message down, made him forget all about it, though.

"Yeah… As I recall, I'd just gotten my ass handed to me by a level-63 black dragon. Not sure there's much butt left to drag."

Freaky. Behind John's voice, and the expected ship noises, Alan could have sworn that he heard a kiddy-type squeal.

"Dude. Are you, like, baby-sitting? Old girlfriend call youup with medical proof, or something? Heh. Just jokes, man. Seriously, though… you gotta start picking safer fights. Nobody with half a brain tackles a high-level black dragon."

Anxious-quick, he keyed up the response.

"Screw that. _He_ started it, and I've got enough potions to set up a damn magical IV. Besides… I got the gem, didn't I?"

By this time, Alan was laughing almost too hard to respond.

"…_And_ 4th-degree burns, smart one! Okay… tell you what; get Male Elf patched up, head over to town, and I'll throw a couple of wood nymphs in his path to help rub in the burn cream."

_Jab._  
"You, um… _do_ want him to actually _reach_ town, don't you?" His brother inquired dryly.

Alan, eager to reply, accidentally hit the wrong button. His wrist comm started to open the next message, only to find nothing there but a garbled, collapsing mess. Same with all the rest of them, like he'd broken some kind of time spell.

"Huh? _Crap!_ What the heck…? _John?"_ He pushed and held the send button. "Hey, Iceman… you there?"

Alan was surprised at how devastating it felt not to receive a reply. One or two more attempts, and then he decided just to leave a message.

"Okay… I know you're busy and stuff. So, call back when you can, 'cause… I've got some questions, y' know? About becoming an astronaut. Think NASA would be interested in another Tracy, if I bring my grades up? Anyways… talk to you whenever, man. Bye."

Fourteen hours later, Alan… with Scott, Gordon and Jeff… was aboard Thunderbird 3 and headed for the Moon.

(To be continued.)


	65. Chapter 65: Stealth

**65: Stealth**

_The Moon-_

Their concerns were many. First, as Saul Guthrie noted, from his stand-by post at Moon Station Control,

"Cheez-louise, they're comin' in fast…!"

Beside Guthrie, white-haired Commander Riley smoothed nervously at his moustache and grunted,

"True enough, Sir, but _Kuiper_ reported much the same effect, and the cargo transfer was managed anyhow. Have a bit of faith, Mr. Guthrie."

The two men stood with a small crowd of engineers and scientists, staring at the central monitor board; able to do little more, yet, than pass telemetry to Houston and Kennedy… and hope for the best.

The public expectation was that _Endurance_ (in her battered, contaminated entirety) would be touching down at a specially prepared isolation hangar. So thought most of Mission Control, Red Path, and thebillions of people who watched, waited and listened along with NASA and WNN.

Their second landing challenge was just as serious as excess speed; along with Guthrie and a handful of NASA personnel, a Red Path operative had been shuttled to the Moon Station, disguised as a chaos expert. Two sleeper agents had been activated, as well, woken from deep cover as a public relations officer and a maintenance man. Simply put, more than doctors and a welcoming committee would be waiting for the Ares III crew at their 'secure' emergency landing site.

The third issue was rather more personal, and complex. There was a toddler aboard, one far too small for a space suit of her own, and with no reinforced crash seat. Landing all of _Endurance_ would risk worsening the ship's hull damage, possibly to the point of venting atmosphere and killing the unprotected child, and no one aboard was prepared to take that risk.

Lastly, International Rescue was already in place, with the silent consent of WorldGov, and NASA's Director. They'd arrived a few days beforehand under cover of Shadowbot, making no show of force, or public announcements.

Jeff Tracy had piloted Thunderbird 3 himself, setting her down as skillfully as he once had the _Explorer_, and in precisely the same spot: the Apollo19 mission base.

Coordinating with _Endurance_ in two very brief contacts, they'd powered up and prepared _Explorer's_ old underground hangar.Much toocramped to accommodate the entire Ares III space ship, it could comfortably hold at least the Crew Escape Capsule.

Jeff waited with Alan as _Endurance_ hurtled nearer, back inside his old mission base and filled with mixed and jumpy emotions. To embark on a rescue, to revisit the site of an old and proud triumph, was beyond all words. And… in those two contacts… he'd glimpsed and spoken with his small granddaughter.

(_Not_ an embryo, nor even a baby, but somehow a tiny, very beautiful girl, almost two years old.)

He'd talked as well with her mother, his son's new wife; and to John, himself.

All good things, but there was anxiety, too. The full plan could not be revealed until the rescue team and flight crew met face-to-face in this dusty, memory-haunted old mission base. And so many things might still go wrong…!

Telemetry and images beamed back by _Kuiper_ showed _Endurance_ to be seriously damaged, the first layer of her hull eaten through in several places, including an outer airlock not far from the Crew Escape Capsule. What else had been affected? Would the capsule even function?

True, the Moon had no atmosphere, but it _did_ possess a gravity well. A weakened capsule might rupture or crash land… smashing six broken peopleupon the merciless lunar surface.

Jeff sat there at an old computer console (Saul's, originally; Pete had managed life support and most of the digging, with Irina running surface operations in the Lunar Rover. Back then, they'd all felt so immortal...) Alan zipped around bringing equipment back online, showing unguessed-at knowledge and skills.

Bit by bit, down in Peary Crater, beneath the surface of a harsh and spiteful moon, machinery came to life, pumps resumed operation, and long-silent computers shook themselves awake.

Jeff had his helmet off, but close to hand, just in case. When the main view screen came on, he tapped a brief wrist comm message to Scott and Gordon, out in Thunderbird 3.

'Up and running.'

Got back, simply,

_'FAB,'_

…and then silence, as previously directed. Almost no-one was officially aware of their presence, but there was a connecting passage between the old and new Moon Stations, and premature discovery remained a possibility. Radio silence was therefore an absolute must.

"Dang, dad!" Alan stage-whispered from the next room over (where they'd kept supplies, and the external computer drives). "This stuff is, like, _elderly_. You could get about as much processing power with a couple of linked Etch-a-Sketches!"

Strange… by LEDs and flickering monitor glow… to be back at his old base and listening to an awed son. The 'elderly' crack did not offend him. Instead, it put a faint smile on his face.

Jeff nodded, watching Alan come bouncing back into the control center, all flopping blond hair and eager grin.

"You're right, son. The equipment _is_ old and outdated… but we accomplished a lot with this 'elderly stuff'. We were the 'Return to the Moon' crew, and we made it possible for that big, fancy IMS base, over there, to exist."

Alan's head cocked to one side and he grinned again at his father, saying,

"I _know. _They talk about you all the time in science class, dad. You're like this big historical marker, or something. …But it's different, really being here. Y' know?"

And Alan thought again that maybe he, too, would become an astronaut; add another proud gold pin to the family collection. Anyways, it was cool being able to leap tall… chairs. _And_ (watch, and be amazed, ladies) he could lift a whole back-up atomic generator with one hand, like it was TinTin's purse, or something. Yeah, John had the right idea; space, _definitely._

Jeff smiled at the boy's enthusiasm, glad that he'd decided to bring Alan along and to let him boot up the old control center. Nice, having a little father-son time.

But _Endurance's_ hair-raising speed, when she finally appeared on the main monitor board, quickly changed his mood. Warping time and reality in her wake, _Endurance_ seemed headed for a violent, deadly crash.

"Oh, man…!" Alan breathed. "Dad, how're they gonna… _Whoa!_ Dude, that was, like, insta-stop!"

For _Endurance_ had finally rejoined Earth's spacetime, almost instantaneously shedding her terrible momentum relative to the home planet. Not quite an insta-stop, though. She still had to fire thrusters and roll a bit to go into lunar orbit.

All at once, blessedly, comm was up and fully functional. Computer screens that had done nothing but flicker uselessly in Houston and the Kennedy Space Center blossomed suddenly with telemetry and images. For the first time in nearly a week (from Earth's perspective) or two long years (from the Ares III crew's) direct communication was possible.

Across the world, at the International Moon Station, down in Jeff Tracy's old _Explorer_ outpost and the cockpit of Thunderbird 3, backs were slapped and hands shaken. Then came Pete McCord's voice, a little weaker than most remembered it, but irreverent as ever.

"IMS, _Endurance:_ how's the weather, down there?"

"Bit dull, I'm afraid," Commander Riley replied over the comm, beaming like a halogen street lamp, "But I'm certain that we can liven things up somewhat with that libation we discussed, all those months ago."

Next, lanky, brown-haired Saul Guthrie leaned over the mike (visuals had suddenly glitched again, which only a few present realized was actually intentional).

"Hey, Old Man. Saul, here: ready to give up all this drama, n' claim that rocking chair?"

"Dunno about retirement, but coming home's a big affirm, Saul. Saginaw's sounding awfully good, right now."

But, while Pete kept the comm lines busy and John guided _Endurance_ into a lunar parking orbit, the others were already abandoning the flight deck. Deeply confused, Janey began to cry. She didn't like the Moon, with all its strange new voices; she didn't want 'home'. Nothing that was happening now made sense to her.

"Shhhhh…!" Linda urged, cuddling the child against her orange survival suit. "It's okay, Baby-girl. Everything's going to be fine. Daddy and Uncle Pete will come along in a minute. Shhh…shh…sh!"

Pete traded a few more quips with the Moon Station crew and Houston, then faked a vox-glitch. That done, he unstrapped, floated up out of his seat, and beckoned to John Tracy.

The pilot nodded, locked his controls, and then followed McCord a short distance aft, to the Crew Escape Capsule. The others were already in place and strapped in, Janey fastened to a sort of padded cradle-board that Roger had bolted to the bulkhead. Her screaming dropped to a whimper once her father and 'uncle' reappeared.

John patted the girl's curly head as he floated past, saying,

"Remember that docking maneuver we talked about?"

Big-eyed and solemn, still crying softly, Janey nodded.

"Now would be the right time to apply it."

Obediently, the little one popped her thumb into her mouth. She had no suit, nor helmet, a fact that tore the heart out of Linda, who refused to lock her own visor. Actually, no one else did, either; they'd make it safely down, or they wouldn't, and the junior crewman would not face that risk alone.

John was keenly aware of the need to hurry. 'Down stairs', Riley and Saul Guthrie could only bluff and fiddle with the comm settings for so long. From his seat at the capsule's rear, Roger Thorpe shut and locked the boarding hatch. With his good hand, the Marine gave John a thumbs-up.

The pilot signaled back, then tapped on his wrist comm. The screen flashed, indicating that Shadowbot coverage would be spread to include the Crew Escape Capsule, just as soon as it blasted away from _Endurance's_ orbiting hulk.

At the press of a few buttons and switches, the capsule's small guidance computer lit up. John glanced at Pete before initiating launch.

"Commander?"

Certain things were obvious, but never spoken of. Pete was dying, but still the Mission Commander, and John would await his approval, forever, if necessary. The older man nodded assent.

"Take us in, Tracy. She's all yours." He glanced around at the others, then, adding,

"Let's do 'er, folks. Time to go home."

A set of clamps retracted explosively, and the Crew Escape Capsule shot away from _Endurance_ like a bullet from a gun. She was pilotable, but only just, with parachutes that would be useless on the Moon, and a set of limited-range thrusters.

The comm buzzed with increasingly strident questions; Riley and Porter were doing a damn fine job of sounding confused. John tuned them out, and flew. Not for IMS, but several clicks south-west, to the Apollo19 hangar that his father had helped construct over twenty years earlier.

Down and sideways. No glide, at all. Just thruster and engine work, Pete calling the figures: velocity, altitude, distance to target and remaining fuel. It was a bumpy, noisy ride,long drops spiked with occasional, jolting thruster burns. Janey whimpered continuously around her thumb, a sound he _couldn't_ tune out. No matter what, _this _time he meant to stand firm between her and nightmare.

"Eyes on the instruments, Tracy. You're drifting!"

"Yeah. Got it, Pete. Sorry."

Rumble, hiss and pop of thruster firings… crying child and fretful proximity warnings. Overhead, Endurance was already lost, swallowed up in the velvet-black sky. Beneath them, jagged grey rocks and badly cratered terrain rushed upward. Where…?

Beautiful. A set of landing pad lights pushed out of the dust below, glowing a welcome bright green. Someone electro-statically charged the hangar's portal, repelling fifteen years of accumulated moon dust. All at once an American flag gleamed forth, stark-bright against dark metal.

His wrist comm beeped, and the horizontal doors began to open, splitting the painted flag and spilling forth a watery gleam. Just about home free…

No longer consciously aware of Pete's voice, John internalized the spoken numbers. _Down… a little more left thruster… need another 2 meters to clear the crater wall… deploy landing gear… landing gear locked… over the target… and begin final descent._

"Cut main engine!" Pete's voice pushed through all the swirling vectors and procedures. A handle was clicked to the off-position, cutting fuel to the engine. Silence fell, and so did the Capsule, plunging downward under 1/6 gravity; past the open hangar doors and into a rough-hewn cavern.

They jounced to a halt on the concrete landing pad, just about dead-center of its bright red targeting circle. His wrist comm beeped again, twice. Dad and Scott both acknowledging at once. He tapped back, feeling a mountain roll partly off his shoulders.

The hangar doors ground shut overhead. A reversed static charge would now begin attracting thestirred-up dust particles, covering their hiding place. John would have felt better about all this, if the Moon's gravity hadn'tcome crushing down like a massive hand. Janey no longer had the strength to cry.

Linda managed to unstrap, hauling herself semi-upright by clinging to seat backs and arm-rests. Somehow, nearly fainting from the effort, she dragged herself over to the child. The others took a long moment to renew their acquaintance with Sir Isaac Newton.

"Oh… God," Roger grunted, "someone... get the damn...elephant off!"

Two years of subjective space-flight had left them all weak as kittens. But there were a few bright spots. Janey rallied enough to gasp,

_"Hate_ moon! Unca Pete, tell Daddy _go back!"_

"Sorry, Peanut…" McCord replied, struggling to raise a hand and pat the girl's head (she was on her mother's lap, now, back in the left second seat).

"…Believe it or not, this is an improvement. It's called gravity, and you get used to it."

The little girl did just what she would have on _Endurance_; she pushed lightly with her legs, expecting to rise into the air… but nothing happened. Docking thumb in mouth, again, she clung to her mother; confused and terrified.

The pumps had about half-pressurized the hangar when two figures in black-and-gold IR spacesuits stepped through a hatch in the rocky north wall. Dad and Alan.

The Escape Capsule was hurriedly evacuated; most injured, first. Roger walked out with the aid of his powered hard suit. (Like John, he'd opted for the increased support and artificial muscle of his Mars exploration gear; in his case, with an artificial leg bolted to the truncated limb).

The Marine helped Cho and Linda up, but stood respectfully aside to let the mission commander rise unaided.

"What're you all staring at?" Pete demanded, once he'd grunted and sworn his way upright. In a high-pitched, mock-British falsetto he added, "I got better!"

They disembarked in good order, John leaving last of all, after shutting the capsule down. Feeling the sudden, strange urge for a memento, he took a last helmet cam image, and copped a loose control knob. Felt… something he couldn't quite grasp, even at full mental stretch.

"John!"

"Yeah, Pete…" he started to say, except that the voice was his father's.

Jeff Tracy stood leaning in at the airlock, his helmet visor open.

"Let's go, son. This hiding place won't be secure for long. There are only so many places you could have gone to ground, and someone's sure to come looking."

His father offered him a steadying hand out of the hatch, which John was too proud to accept.

"Thanks, dad. But, I can manage."

Outside, Alan was trying very hard to get Janey to look at him.

"Aww… come on, Sweetie-pie! It's me, Uncle Alan. I said 'hi' to you on the comm, remember? You wanted me to play with you? Remember Uncle Alan? Look…! I've got _candy!"_

John smiled slightly, then returned his attention to Jeff, who had also been watching the show.

"That's a beautiful little girl," the older man said, sounding... well… not like John had ever heard him. "And I'm glad to hear that you and her mother decided to do the right thing and get married. Although, I have to question Pete's credentials as a…"

"I heard that, Tracy!" Pete fired over one shoulder. "And, as a fully deputized clergyman, I resemble the implication. My 'Church of Universal Light' dues are paid up through December, 2075, pal."

John had warned his crewmates in advance that they would recognize their rescuers. Everyone had agreed to keep the matter quiet; though a certain amount of former-co-worker teasing was probably inevitable.

Matters grew serious again, back in the old _Explorer_ control center, for it was time for phase two of the operation: rescuing every astronaut but one.

"You're sure about this, son?" Jeff probed anxiously. "Because if those viruses you wrote can be remotely activated…"

"We'd cripple the Red Path, sir, but not finish them, which is what they're trying _damn _hard to do to us. Inkblot and Bit-stormcan do a lot of damage, but they won't stop the key players from going public with our identities. Dad, _they know who you are._ We've got to find and destroy their leaders… at least get some names… or everything you've built goes down the tube."

"Fine. _I'll_ go, then. You have a wife and baby to think about, and you say it's me they really want, so…"

"No, sir." John shook his blond head, impatient at the plan's delay. "If you turn yourself in, they'll just kill you on the spot. No questions asked; do not pass 'go', do not collect two hundred dollars. All _I've_ got going for me is that they need me alive long enough to extract information, which I'm betting is too sensitive to be entrusted to anyone outside the power center. If I can get within fifty feet of this guy, dad, I can finish him. The viruses are already uploaded, on a timed _'dead-man's switch'_. If I'm killed, they fire upwithin an hour oflast pulse. I know what I'm doing, sir."

Jeff looked away. Alan was making faces at the little girl, trying to get a smile, but she was afraid of his gun, and his 'otherness'. Hiding her face against the inside of her mother's spacesuit neck-ring, she reached toward John.

"Son…" Jeff told him, shaking the young man's hand. "I can't argue with your logic. Never could get you to change your mind, or get a haircut, either. That took NASA. Anyhow... I accept your offer, but I wish like hell that there was another way. Take care, John. We'll be monitoring comm channels across the board, waiting for your extraction call."

And that was pretty much it, except for some personal good-byes.

McCord pulled him aside for a brief conversation… a few fatherly bits of advice. He gave his gun to Roger, who promised to help defend the retreat of Linda and the remaining crew. Cho kissed his cheek, whispering benedictions in broken Korean…

And then it was time to take his leave of wife and child. The girl did not understand. She cried hysterically, wrapping her arms about his neck and repeating,

"Go wi' Daddy! _Wanna go wi' Daddy!_ Unca Pete, tell Daddy!"

The mission commander came over to take Janey, who still wouldn't look at Jeff or Alan.

"Wish I could do that, Junior… but your daddy's got a job to do, just like the rest of us."

As mission commander, Pete's was the final word, and Kara Jane-Ellen knew this. Thumb back in her mouth, she silently waved good-bye.

John returned the gesture, and then looked down at his small, unhappy wife.

"I feel so short," she whispered. In space, she'd been able to hover at eye-level. Here, she came barely to mid-chest.

John reached down and, with the augmented power of hard-suit muscles, lifted her to face him.

"Better?"

He would have kissed her, but she pushed blindly, suddenly away, stumbled back onto the ground and bolted off.

_'Dude,'_ Alan thought. _That was harsh!_

To cheer his stone-faced brother he said, tentatively,

"She'll get over it, man. You know how chicks are. They don't ever get the important stuff, but they go all hog-wild crazy over having to say 'good-bye'."

John nodded.

"Yeah. I figured." Then, reaching into a belt compartment, he pulled out a small flash-drive.

"Here. I made a few hundred character updates and enough random number selections to keep the game running for awhile."

"Until you come back," Alan clarified fiercely.

"Right."

The flash-drive changed hands, and all of a sudden Alan said,

"I could come with you, John. You know… sneak along behind, to watch your back and stuff."

His taller brother smiled, but shook his head.

"Thanks, Alan; you've already done a lot, and I need someone I can trust at home to keep an eye on the wife and kid."

Weirdly, he sounded a lot like Matt. Alan didn't argue with him, this time, saying only,

"Okay. I've got it handled, bro. Do what you got to."

A wrist comm beeped, and the two brothers turned to face the sound's source: Jeff Tracy.

"Boys, it's time. Scott makes three unauthorized personnel coming down the Moon Station access tunnel. We have to get moving."

This had the effect of setting Janey off, again. To the weeping baby in McCord's arms, John said,

"Docking maneuver."

She sought comfort in that thumb, again, but reached out for him with the other hand. Very carefully (his hard-suited fingers were powerful and relatively insensitive to pressure) he touched her face.

"Be a good girl, and listen to your mother. I'll be back, soon."

And then he went a different way from everyone else, letting all the air out of what had been a happy, secure little world. There was nothing she could do but cry as screen-men with guns led the rest of her family to safety aboard Thunderbird 3, and daddy went away.

John entered the access tunnel, wishing he had time to scan his own ID chip. Since touching Janey that last time, it had begun heating up. Couldn't get to it through the hard-suit gauntlet, though, so he did his best to ignore the oddly familiarsensation.

The tunnel was low, dusty and dark, but negotiable, being arrow-straight. He switched on his helmet lamp and started walking toward the noise of approaching others. Soon enough, he encountered the intruders. Three of them; all heavily armed. One was female, to judge by the contours of her silvery jet-set tourist space suit. The males wore standard issue Moon Station gear.

John stopped short, not feeling much of anything at all. Cold and tired, maybe.

"Douse your light!" One of the gunmen demanded, adding, "Name?"

…once he'd complied.

_"Tracy, John M._ It's stenciled on the suit, jackass."

Bright-boy gestured angrily.

"The others?"

"Gone. They took an old lunar rover to the station. There wasn't enough room for all of us, and I was least injured, so I got picked to walk home. Happy?"

A faint vibration was transmitted to him from the tunnel floor, reminding John of a certain far-off rock drill or two. Thunderbird 3 was away.

"Remove your helmet. There is air here, and you will come to no harm."

_Sure._ This had all seemed a lot more sensible back on _Endurance._ Now… well, his suit might shrug off a few close-range bullet strikes, and it was powerful enough to put all three terrorists into the ground… but then he'd never come near the Red Path leader.

_What the hell, huh? Might work._

He took the helmet off. The female now came forward, holding what looked like a small air mask and tank.

"You will take three deep breaths," the first gunman snapped, after she'd blocked his attempt to take the equipment. "No harm will…"

"Come to me. Yeah. _I get it_. I'm being transported to a place of safety for my own good, etc."

_Damn_. If he was going to be drugged unconscious, the least they could do was shut up and get started. Nothing worse than chatty, incompetent kidnappers.

He couldn't see the woman's face through her reflective visor, but her touch was gentle. The mask went over his mouth and nose. As instructed, John breathed in (but not deeply; an early wake-up might prove invaluable), mingling medication with the gunpowder reek of moon dust.

In a very few minutes, he'd ceased consciously thinking. All that John Tracy could do now was follow the instructions of his captors. He was not entirely abandoned, however. There was a quantum intelligence present; little more than the ghost of a former machine, but determined nonetheless to save her creator.


	66. Chapter 66: Deal

**66: Deal**

_Somewhere-_

"…ohn? …h…ar me?"

_Yes._

"Are y… quite al… ri…t?"

_No._

"Do y… kn… who… am?"

_Linda?_

From somewhere that might have been part of him came a brief, tingling impact. A slap? He understood, then: something had gone wrong. More questions and, later,a sense of movement.

"John, listen t… me! Y… _must_ cea… fighting contr... It is… ting attention. John! _This way!"_

Time and activity, but no choices; not his hands that were bound, but his thoughts. Despite the commands, he continued struggling for control.

The universe that began coming into focus was dark; silvery drops trailing along a sheet of glass in slow, endless ribbons. Female voice again, still angry…

"John… extremel… impor… that y…"

Another push brought further sounds, splashing inside of his head like hotly-colored explosions on black-and-white tile. A long, orange horn-blast… green and blue tumbling sirens and brown-velvet engine noise below staccato violet rainfall.

_Driving someplace. Not the Moon._

He found himself shaking. Sick? No… drugged. He remembered a mask, and sharp-smelling fumes. Shards of an AWOL universe came sidling back to him.

A… plastic bottle with something (water?) inside. It grew larger, which startled him, but next there followed a sensation of trickling coolness. Drinking: he'd taken a drink from the water bottle, which he could now feel, smooth and wet against the palm of his hand.

Afterward, he reclaimed up and down, and the feel of a seatbelt shoulder strap. More sorted-out awareness: sounds lost their color, and the rain-watery light streaming through tinted windows stopped tasting like blended everclear.

He seemed to be sitting in the back of a moving sedan; late model, tan leather interior, fairly luxurious. There was gravity, a taxi-type privacy shield blocking the driver's compartment, and Penny close beside him. She had on a blue wool coat-dress, pearl-buttoned and curve-hugging. Her upswept hair was dyed red this time, and her eyes altered by green contacts. More than that, she had an actress's trick of holding herself differently; projecting another persona at a moment's thought. Fooled most people that way, but never him.

"How are you getting on, dear?" She asked. "Quite yourself again, after having very nearly _ruined_ us both?"

After a moment, when he'd decided what the hell she was talking about, John shook his head. Speech came harder than listening, but…

"Didn't say anything about drugging me… in your message… and anyway, couldn't be sure it was you… so I hedged my bet. Breathed shallow."

It was growing dark outside. Speeding along a guarded, 'no stopping' lane, they soon passed beyond the official borders of some crowded American megalopolis, and entered its sodden grey slums. Signs flashed by, but he was having trouble reading, just then.

She said, plucking at a pearl-and-gold hair ornament,

"Yes; well, placed me in rather a bind, didn't it? You were meant to remain under control and inconspicuous for several hours yet. _Now _I am faced with an inconveniently conscious, as well as mobile, mark. _Why_ must you make each little thing so damnably complex?"

He responded, not very sympathetically,

"My head hurts. I'm hungry and I feel like shit. My wife is probably going to divorce me for leaving, like that… You want to un-complicate things? Tell me who hired you and 'Stirling'. I'll take care of the rest."

Penny shrugged, reaching for her Louis Vuitton handbag.

"Truthfully, darling, I've no idea _who_ has engaged my services. The contact was a 'Mr. Black', renowned in certain circles as one who pays well… and revenges himself equally so. _His_ employer, I haven't yet been able to ferret out… although the trail does lead to…"

"D.C.?" John cut in, accepting the aspirin she'd fished from her bag. Beside him on the car seat, Lady Penelope blinked.

"And how, pray tell, were you able to discern this from a spaceship?" _(It had taken her several contracts and many long months of delicate spadework to come so close to Mr. Black.)_

The aspirin helped, though it (and the water) tasted funny; two years in space had seriously screwed up his perception of flavor and smell. Setting aside the plastic bottle, John explained,

"I tracked the IP address of a suspect attack box. D.C. came up… and files containing the names 'Black', 'Stirling' and 'Genovese', plus a few other details… but D.C. as headquarters was unsubstantiated, until now."

Having established a location, he fumbled for his wrist comm. Penny slapped the hand aside, hissing,

"Don't you _dare_ to use that contraption in a monitored vehicle! Are you mad? I've blocked all internal bugs and ID chips, but if an unauthorized transmission is detected originating from my transport, this little 'outing' will come to a distressingly permanent end. By laser-fire, most likely. Much _you_ care."

Weird. She seemed to be recreating a time long before, when she'd kidnapped him from the Kennedy Space Center. (Then, too, a memorable journey.)

The song of road and rain and tire… of cold winds sifting amid crumbling buildings and graffiti-ed overpasses… mingled subtly with her quiet voice and downcast eyes.

"Not that you've _ever_ cared..."

John glanced anew at his own clothing. The battered hard suit and liner were gone. In their place: an extremely sharp, high-endbusiness suit, tailored white shirt and grey silk tie. His hair had been trimmed, and he wore a pair of imported Italian shoes that matched a nearby laptop case.

"Who managed the clean-up and disguise?" He asked, changing the subject.

_"I _did. I had need to alter your semblance for safe transport, John, and it seemed most expedient to have you travel as a wealthy and jet-lagged young executive. But you became troublesome in LaGuardia, fighting the drug and drawing attention to yourself. I had to convince them all that you were merely an obnoxious drunk, who must be got home before he collapsed in mid-terminal."

And then, shifting about so that her silk-stockinged knees brushed his left leg,

"This is quite a lawless section of Philadelphia, John. You might easily 'overpower' me, have your way, stop the car and then slip off through a back alley, to safety."

Interesting offer… but John shook his head. (Appreciated the sentiment, though.)

"I need to get as close as possible to 'Mr. Black' and whoever's pulling his strings, Penny. I…"

"No." She told him, very firmly. "You have a confirmed location now, and the opportunity to escape with your life, John. Much may come of small beginnings. _Accept the offer."_

Okay. The truth, then; part of it, anyhow.

"I can't. There's… um… another prisoner. A girl. I have to free her, if she's still alive. But to do that I need a way in. According to your file, you were supposed to apprehend me for questioning. So, do your job; take me to Mr. Black."

There was a very odd look on Penelope's face as she said,

"And what leads you to suppose that the 'questioning' has not already taken place? That under drug and a trusted interrogator, you have not already revealed everything of note?"

Again, she reached into her handbag, pulling forth a flashdrive, this time. John made a slight motion; more the swift tensing that presaged action than a true lunge… but something burned at the back of his wrist, like a warning. Perhaps the ID chips were not so well blocked as she'd thought, nor his answers quite soreliable. At any rate, John sat warily back, awaiting whatever came next.

Penelope continued urgently,

"For all you know, rather than reaching Mr. Black, John, you are being escorted to a secluded construction site for execution and disposal."

_Shit._ Now what?

Her eyes were very wide, and she placed a warm, kneading hand on his thigh. Squares and bars of golden street light slid across them both.

The flashdrive lay clutched in her other hand; most clearly, an offering. An opportunity for trade. Again, came that brief pulse of heat from his ID chip. He thought of the hallucinated AI (the pretty thing conjured up on Mars by cave-in, pain and hypoxia) and the chip flared anew. Meaning what…? _Go along? Stall for time?_

John placed his hand over Penny's for just a moment, stilling it, and then very gently removed her hand from his leg.

"Have you spoken with your contact, yet?" he asked.

"No," Penelope whispered. "Else I should already have uploaded the interrogation, and my offer would prove untenable. John, _please,_ you must listen to reason! Together, we can still come off well. Haven't we always done, no matter the situation? Remember Malta? And… and Macedonia? You and I are fellow cons…"

But he wasn't listening. Not really.

_"Wait._ What if you weren't able to get many straight answers out of me, because the drug showed some… I dunno… space-related side-effects? Would he need to set something up closer to home _then?_ Maybe oversee the interrogation himself?"

John wasn't upset with her; Penelope had long been a freelance operative. A professional. She did what she had to… and she'd offered him at least the courtesy of a fighting chance. But he had what might prove to be a hidden advantage, and something else to offer 'Mr. Black':

"You could tell him that I revealed a way to double or triple whatever he's got in his foreign bank accounts. _That_ ought to get his attention."

Sudden decision.

"Listen: here's the deal, Penny. Wipe that flashdrive, tell him the drug glitched, and that (left conscious) I can Xerox whatever amount of money he wants… and bring me in. In return, I'll buy out all the rest of your contracts and set you up in the top strata, financially."

"And…?" She took a deep breath, lifting a manicured hand to the face of her extraordinarily handsome captive/ partner. "You ask me to risk my _own_ life, as well as yours, darling. Not to sound crude or pushy… but what else am I deriving from this barking-mad 'deal'?"

He needed to find and stop the leader of Red Path. _And_ to save Drew (though it seemed smarter not to bring this up, again). His ID chip was sending what felt like bolts of flame up his left arm… and he honestly didn't expect to survive his self-imposed suicide mission. Crucially, though, his family and crewmates… Linda and Janey… _would._

But only if he could wrangle assistance from Lady Penelope. Only if he could get to the center of this web, and destroy whatever he found there.

"What else do you want?" John replied.


	67. Chapter 67: Cold and Dark

First edit, thanks, ED! Type silly at 4:30 AM... )

**67: Cold and Dark**

_Driving south, toward Washington, D.C.-_

A deal had been struck, one that John Tracy never expected to have to see through. Any light in a blackout; and at the time, the only thing he much cared about was reaching his quarry.

Satisfied with their bargain, Penny had buzzed new instructions to her driver, and then called another number with a coded message for Mr. Black.

_(In a better world, he would have told her his full plans; not simply used a short-range wrist comm signal to upload 'inkblot.kryp.win.RFID.exe'_ _over the newly opened connection. Fortunes of war, though.)_

Eventually, they came to Washington. There, the windows darkened automatically, and John had to accept a blindfold.

The car made several dozen turns, some of which might have been executed to confuse his sense of direction. Each time the vehicle swerved, however, his ID chip pulsed. _Someone_ was keeping track, whatever they tried.

After what seemed a long time, the car began to descend, as though they'd entered a long tunnel or off-ramp. Sounds reverberated differently there, betraying an enclosed, echoing space.

Their car drew to a halt, the engine cut off, and John felt the very slight, jouncing shift of someone stepping out. One of the forward doors slammed.

Penelope placed a hand on his knee, and gave him a quick squeeze. He understood; she was back in 'work mode', and he'd best look to himself. Out there, she _could not_ break persona without revealing what they were up to. Her lips brushed his cheek, mouthing,

_'Good luck.'_

And then the door on his side of the car opened, with attendant noise and pressure changes. His seatbelt was released; John was handcuffed, then drawn from the vehicle and searched, experiencing the full, upright effects of Earth gravity for the first time.

He asked no questions, put up no resistance, more intent on gauging his surroundings than fighting. Weirdly, an electrical impulse flared from the warmth at his wrist to John's retinas, creating a sparking grey blind-sight image of the immediate environment.

Floor and low ceiling, rows of pylons fading into the distance… some kind of grating by his right foot, car at his back. Penny stood silently by; like one of those magnetic-sculpture executive toys, she seemed made of small, shimmering bits. Movement smudged her image, and that of the eight armed men who came up to surround them. To the nearest (her driver, John supposed), she murmured,

"Remain with the car."

…Getting a nod in return. She then placed a guiding hand at John's elbow, and they began to walk, the silent men falling in around them. He'd have known they were present (their footfalls rang loudly against concrete decking) but the silvery-grey retinal image helped him keep track of their gun hands.

John had to remind himself to throw in the occasional stumble. Otherwise, they might have guessed that he could somehow still 'see'.

They walked an exhausting fifty feet, coming at last to a wall which contained square patches of a different texture that he finally identified as doors. These swished quietly open, at some signal or motion that John entirely failed to detect. (Safe bet they were being watched on surveillance cameras, though.)

The lot of them next stepped inside of a very large elevator car. Again, no signal, but the doors shut and the car began to drop. A very long and sobering ride down…

John found himself wondering about the dead guy: J. Random Hacker. Was he festering his way to eternity somewhere down here? Had he thought that he'd worked out a bullet-proof plan to get out, again? Whatever… Soon enough, John figured he'd probably get a chance to ask him.

At the bottom floor, by some sort of gate, he was once again searched; much more roughly, this time. Suit jacket, wrist comm, belt and shoes were removed, and he was scanned top to toe with metal detectors and a powerful Electrical Conduction Interference Device (set much closer to 'hurt like hell' than 'zap'). The searchers detected nothing more sinister than his ID chip, which they made sure to wipe with a few swift charge bursts. John was left in the dark for about three minutes, forced to rely upon Penelope for navigational cues. He was extremely relieved when the chip suddenly warmed and his 'vision' returned.

More walking, until they came to a small, cold room, with what seemed to be a window or mirror in the wall opposite the door, and a single chair. He was quickly resituated, seated and cuffed to the chair, which turned out to be metal, but not bolted to the floor. Good to know, because information like that could turn out to be important.

The ceiling appeared to be formed of acoustic tile… divided into squares, at any rate. The deck was smooth, with a slight declivity leading to a stained floor drain. Great. Nice, morbid touch, that.

One of his guards yanked the blindfold off on the way out. Penelope, too, was drawn away, carefully not looking at him.

As expected, the chair was uncomfortable, the wall square was an observation mirror, and it took awhile for things to get started. Whoever the guy was, he'd obviously read the FBI's invaluable _'How to Make Your Guests Feel Welcome and Wanted'_ handbook. Out of sheer cussedness, John refused to speak first.

To pass the time, he played mental games; battling himself to a draw in two and a half chess matches, before an electronically altered voice issued from the mirror's inset microphone.

"How d'you do, Mr. Tracy. I understand that you have a proposition for me?"

_You could say that, yeah._

He nodded.

"I want to trade something I know how to do, for someone you have in custody."

"Ah. The little lady, I take it? Thought she might turn out to be a good investment. Not like the other two. Shame about that, but Stirling does get into his work."

The mirror had become a 3-way split screen. Two of the scenes were static images. Not much recognizable, beyond the Cubs jacket in the top image and… well… he recognized what was left of Denice, too.

Something very badly wanted to happen, but he slammed it back down again, because if he lost his head now, the entire plan was finished. Behind his back, though, John yanked at his cuffs until they tore the flesh beneath.

Drew was in a cell, huddled upon the concrete floor with her head down and her knees drawn up to her chest. More internal upheaval, which he managed to keep to himself. Pretty clearly, she'd been beaten.

"Yeah. That's the one. I need to speak to her."

After all, he might have been seeing a many weeks old, looped video of Autumn crying silently in a prison cell.

A brief, dry chuckle.

"Now, why would I do anything that stupid, Pretty Boy? I control all the communications around here, and I don't like the thought of you plotting with your little hellcat, over there."

_Pretty Boy?_ He flashed back, suddenly, to one of those god-awful, never-ending NASA fundraisers, and the government photo-op that had preceded it.

_Holy shit._ What's-his-name, the Texan: with all those… 'Why are we wasting this Nation's hard-earned money on worthless space shots and pretty faces?' jibes… _Stennis. Bastard, son-of-a-bitch lying murderer._

Aloud, though…

"She isn't much use to anyone, dead. The only way you can prove she's worth bargaining for is by letting me speak to her. Otherwise, no deal."

Again, the dry laugh.

"Too bad you're about as trustworthy as a double-headed rattlesnake, Pretty Boy; you're an interesting fellow. All right… you're on a live mike. Talk to the little lady."

The picture seemed to jump slightly, refreshing to a more current shot. He said, after a moment,

"Drew."

The huddled figure looked wildly up and around, revealing a terribly bruised face.

"Tracy…?" She whispered, with evident difficulty.

His girlfriend (no… not anymore; he had a wife, now)… Start again: Drew forced herself to stop crying.

" 'Sup, loser?" She asked him.

"Not much. Enjoying the hospitality of a mutual friend. You okay?"

She sniffled, fussed at her tangled hair, but nodded.

"Yeah… pretty much. Can… could I see you?"

"Soon. Give me a minute to work some stuff out, and I'll get right back to you."

She bit her bloodied and swollen lower lip. Then,

"Promise?"

_If he had to cross hell to do it._

"Yeah. Promise."

The video scene jumped again, returning to its muted setting.

"Satisfied, little fella?" The electronic voice inquired.

_Once you're dead, absolutely._

"She'll do. I assume that she hasn't been allowed to actually see you? Doesn't know where she really is?"

"As I said, Pretty Boy, I'm not stupid; motivated by a different agenda, is all. Just like you."

_Uh-uh, dammit. Nothing like me. …And that one's going to cost you._

"Good. Then you can have her blindfolded and released, at a place of my choosing, after proof of which I'll access an available computer and multiply your funds by whatever factor you care to name."

Round one of the negotiations were now concluded, with his first offer deemed unacceptable.

"Try again, Mr. Tracy. How about you teach my computer experts how to work this 'duplication exploit', and _then_ I let your hellcat out of her cage?"

"Two reasons."

John shifted a bit in the cold metal chair. His back was having a hell of a time adjusting to Earth gravity.

_"First_, I don't trust you to let her go once you've gotten what you want. I'm not stupid, either… Stennis. _Second_, even given a cliff-notes computer manual, your trained monkeys couldn't handle all the necessary manipulations. Not enough upstairs."

The name, deliberately used, provoked a sudden, violent response. The door opened behind him, and someone raced up to first club him repeatedly, then kick the chair over. All at once, John was sideways on the floor, with blood in his mouth and bright spots flashing in his eyes, one arm caught between concrete and chair edge. His assailant stepped hard on the other side of the chair.

From behind the half-silvered mirror, Stennis said,

"Couple of things we need to get straight from the outset, Pretty Boy. One: I'm in charge here, and you stay alive only so long as I feel like letting you breathe. Two: I don't have to just kill her. I know how much you'd hate to see that pretty lady turned back over to Stirling. So, from now on, the only thing I want to hear out of you is… _'Yes, sir'_… you disrespectful little shit. Understood?"

_Go to hell._

"Well? I got plenty of talented 'specialists' on retainer, Pretty Boy; for you and her, both."

The pressure on his trapped arm had grown to near breaking force. Must… really have… pissed the guy off. If it _was_ a guy. John didn't turn his head to look, just in case his tormentor was Penny, and an unexpected glance led her to pull a punch, thus betraying herself. Hidden aces were only good as long as they stayed in your sleeve.

"Yeah… understood."

_"Now_ we're getting someplace. The smart move," Stennis continued, as his hired muscle righted the chair, "would be to fold. Just get whatever I can pry outta you by force, then kill you both and cut my losses. But… you've got to take risks to get anywhere in life, and this is a great work, Pretty Boy; the most important in mankind's history. Except _your_ type are too blinded by greed and technology to see the beauty of it all. This is humanity's redemption we're talking about: apure and reclaimed Earth and a brand new race of men."

_Uh-huh. And you're an effing lunatic._

But maybe that would work to his advantage. Irrational people, prodded hard enough, tended to make useful errors. He said,

"Once… the girl's been freed, we can get startedwith funding your 'vision'…_sir."_

"Of course. Everything and everybody has a price, little fella. Just a matter of figuring out what motivates them. In your case, all it took was catching hold of the right girl."

A few details were settled, and then John was once more allowed to speak with Drew. She'd gotten up, and was limping anxiously around her cold, barren little cell, hugging herself.

"Hey," he said, causing her slightly to jump.

"You, again, Tracy?"

"Yeah. I just keep turning up. Listen, Drew: in a couple of minutes, two men are going to show up take you from your cell. They won't hur…"

"Why not you? Where are you, John?"

She seemed about to cry, again. Very aware of handcuffs, distance and cameras, he said,

"I'm… around. I'm okay, but I've got to stay for awhile. Stuff to do, you know? But, anyhow, the men will take you out of here, blindfolded. I've given them coordinates for the police station inPhiladelphia where we bailed… um… where Rick was locked up, that time. I know the desk sergeant, over there. She owes me a few favors, and I'll call up in an hour or so to be sure you made it, and that your escort isn't still hanging around. Drew, _stay there._ Cause a disturbance and get arrested, if you have to, but don't move without the signal, got it?"

Her face had changed.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "John, I'm so sorry…!"

Although she couldn't see him, her former boyfriend shook his head.

"Not your fault. I got sloppy, and stuff caught up with me. Just follow the plan, okay?"

She nodded, blowing a bruised and tear-stained kiss in the camera's direction.

The men did come, and his girlfr… _Drew_ allowed herself to be hooded, then escorted from the cell. John waited, still bound to a chair, for what seemed like a full rotation of the galactic center. Then…

"My men report that they've reached the station and kicked your hellion onto the sidewalk. And… she's inside. Give me the number, and I'll get the desk officer on speaker phone. But understand sumthin', Pretty Boy; say the wrong thing, and I torch the place, then reveal everything I know about your father at a Capitol Hill press conference."

John gave a short, impatient shrug.

"At this point…_sir_… you don't have much to worry about. I'm not going to do anything that might endanger her safety." As Stennis surely knew.

The number was given, and the call went through; an audio-only connection.

"Precinct seven, how can I help you?"

"Sergeant Chavez?"

"Speaking… hang on, Sir. _(Well, get her some water and first aid, then take the report! Dammit, have I gotta think of everythin', around here?)_ Yeah: sorry.Precinct seven, what's up?"

"Hey. It's me. Just wanted to know if a friend of mind has arrived, yet. Female, white; late twenties. Sort of battered. Probable domestic abuse."

He heard a chair squeak as Sergeant Chavez rose and padded around her desk for a better look.

"Speak of the devil! Pelkowski's takin' a report and bandagin' her up, right now. I'll call in another female officer and the paramedics. You comin' in ta get her, John? _John…?"_

He didn't quite know how to answer that, or to deal with the sudden emotion that rose up, threatening to choke off reason and certainty.

"I… um… somebody will. Do me a favor, please, sergeant, and let her stay for awhile? She's pretty shaken up."

"Yeah. I can see that. Keeps askin' about 'cha, too. Okay, long as she don't want to file no charges, we'll hold off doin' anything till your people arrive. But this ain't no bed-and-breakfast, know what I mean?"

Sergeant Chavez was a distant cousin of Denice's (whose rambling family appeared to have colonized most of the tri-state area), with allof his friend'sattendant warmth and charm.

"Sure do, Sergeant. Someone will be along, with a 'message' for you. That's who she goes with. And, thank you."

Okay. One less concern. Wished that he could have been there to help calm the girl… but, again; emotion was the enemy of a clear head, and he had a few things left to do. He couldn't afford to be distracted.

The first matter seen too, he was allowed a bit of food and water, and a 30-second visit to the head. By the time he'd been escorted back to his own cell, someone had wheeled in a computer work station; desk, power cords and all. His ID chip set up a slow burn that matched John's own impatience.

"Gotta tell you, Tracy," Stennis informed him, from behind the safety of his mirror, "There's a team of hackers hooked in via LAN, watching everything you do. First move they don't like, the plug gets pulled, and you die. Got it?"

"Sir, yes _sir,"_ John muttered, as his escorts fastened him to the chair with a set of leg irons. Nice computer, though. Flat screen monitor, projection keyboard and a highly modified box with more speed and processing power than your average university mainframe. Had his situation not been so serious, John would have fallen in love. Back to business, though…

He hadn't expected a very deep interface, but something odd happened when he logged on; just as if he'd taken hold of a cyberlink, John found himself pulled 'inside', facing infinite arrays ofneon data, and a wide telnet portal to the shifting, glowing universe beyond.

He was drawn through the port by a sudden torrent of lavender qubits. Passing the blazing firewall and grim anti-viral sentries, John's consciousness was thrust forth into cyberspace. Stennis' hackers hovered there, seeming about as brisk and alert as a trio of Easter Island Moai.

Just for the hell of it, John tracked all three of them back to their entry points, then took over and reformatted their hard-drives; erasing absolutely everything. No more troubles from that quarter…

In the next partial eye-blink,at a source he'd readied much earlier, 'bitstorm.kryp.win.http.exe' was unleashed like lightning from a funnel cloud.

But Inkblot struck first. A mass call went out over wireless networks and blue tooth connections, dialing the cell phones of each Red Path lieutenant in Stennis' data base. As soon as he or she answered, the virus jumped to their ID chip, and thence to those of anyone nearby. Inkblot overwrote nearly a hundred thousand chips in less than a full second, causing them now to transmit:

_"Red Path operative seeks burly cellmate for companionship, long walks in the exercise yard, and good times. Ready for a thirty years-to-lifetime commitment, and yours for the taking, Sweet-pea. Come and get it!"_

Police scanners and security gates all over the world went completely berserk. The deluge of citizen's arrests that day nearly outnumbered the official variety.

Bitstorm had gone to work, as well. The virus mailed itself as an important-seeming document, instantaneously reaching every computer networked to Stennis' server. It got in, 'forced-up' and blinded the operating systems of each victim, and created a malicious virtual computer to take their place. There was worse to come. Each zombie machine now downloaded copies of all its files to the FBI, stamped with John's old ASCII graffiti tag: the shield and '**S**'.

Inkblot to put them in jail… Bitstorm to make certain they stayed there, and that Stennis was absolutely and forever branded. As a last, flip-off gesture (before the glass broke and the bullets hit) he thought-coded: _"All your base are belong to us!"_

…and had the phrase stream endlessly across each and every Red Path computer. Didn't take much to throw him back out into the real world again, though. Just a few small pieces of lead.


	68. Chapter 68: Esc

Re-hi, more newly edited... Thanks ED, Tikatu, Cath, Agent Five and Sam (for everything).

**68: Esc**

_Thunderbird 3-_

They'd been hustled aboard the International Rescue spacecraft by Jeff Tracy and one of his younger sons, a blond teenager they'd encountered once or twice before at NASA get-togethers.

Thunderbird 3 was on the lunar surface, docked to the old Explorer moon base airlock. All they'd had to do, under the crushing force of lunar gravity, was walk a few hundred yards and then climb two short metal access ladders; an Olympic track-and-field event to four people long accustomed to zero-g.

The baby cried quietly around her thumb, despite all the comfort that mother, two worried uncles and a solicitous aunt had to offer. And, no wonder. The sleek Thunderbird ship struck them all as weirdly high-tech and stripped-down. Where _Endurance's _every available surface had been covered with instruments, switches or padding, Thunderbird 3 looked more like a fancy corporate jet; especially back in her red and silver 'passenger lounge'.

There were strap-in couches, of course, but also a projection view screen, game system, deep-pile carpet and stereo. Amidst all this elegant glitz and slickery, the Ares III crew felt rather grubby and out-of-place... Like the Wright Brothers aboard a high powered space plane.

Worse, the ship had artificial gravity, set to Earth normal. Cho and Linda seemed about to collapse, and the baby, too, was suffering.

Leaving Roger to guard the ladies, Pete started forward. (While he'd never before ridden an International Rescue craft, he knew how Jeff Tracy's mind worked… how his former pilot would likely design a rocket.)

McCord was halfway through the hatch when he noticed Janey extending both small hands at full stretch, trying to catch him. She was in her mother's arms and clearly desperate to reach the mission commander. Since coming aboard, all she'd done was sign, and now kept repeating _'Ask/Please'_ with chubby-handed, baby clumsiness; almost praying to him.

So he finger-spelled _'OK',_ adding aloud,

"Let's go, Peanut. I may need backup on this one."

The small girl tried to push free of her mother's grip and soar across the cabin to Pete, but her space-weakened muscles permitted little more than a brief wriggle. Alan would have carried her over had she not turned away, signing vehemently, _'No!'_

So, Pete went back for her, tiring though all this activity was for a slowly dying man. The toddler transferred into his arms, determined not to let anyone else go off without her.

A short passage connected the lounge and cockpit, where Jeff and two more of John's brothers were preparing for launch. Before they arrived, Janey tugged at McCord's sandy hair and whispered,

"Unca Pete, I know! I know, Unca Pete! Us gotsa tell them… go back to _'Durance,_ then get daddy. Daddy gots twelve-hour tank, Unca Pete! We gotsa get him before he runs outta air!" And, emphatically signed,

_'I don't like (what?)Moon!'_

She'd set up the noun 'daddy' over her left shoulder, and pointed to the spot repeatedly while verbalizing and signing, both.

Funny… you could be sore, tired, sick and cranky as hell… but something about a little one's earnest logic pushed everything else aside. Settling the toddler against the crook of one arm, McCord paused long enough to sign back,

_'Daddy-you OK. Soon daddy-you join back. Now no Endurance. Now no Moon. Now home. Peanut quiet now.'_

She didn't understand, and she didn't like it, but Janey obeyed; once more jamming a thumb in her mouth.

Pete rubbed the tiny girl's back, recalling Stephanie, his now-grown daughter.

"It's going to be okay, Junior," he told the little girl, who clung like a wide-eyed baby monkey. "Your daddy's going to make it back. We didn't come all this way just to trip at the damn finish line."

She sniffled against his neck, nodding acceptance. Then they stepped into the unfamiliar cockpit, and Janey shut her eyes.

Scott and Gordon Tracy stopped their preflight bustling at the first real glimpse of their baby niece. They'd have rushed over, both of them; but Jeff had already warned her uncles of the child's shyness. To put it mildly, she was unaccustomed to strangers.

Both young men craned around as best they could for a better look, though, trying to see John in the wispy blonde hair and delicate profile.

"Listen," Commander McCord informed the cockpit crew in general, "We've got a couple of females and an injured Marine below deck who'd sure appreciate it if you folks could cycle back the artificial gravity."

Truth to tell, the 'trash-compactor' effect wasn't doing much for him or Junior's heart, either.

"How about giving them a little relief, back there?"

His old crewmate, Jeff Tracy, gave the weakened man a single, brusque nod. Interrupting comm with Genine, back at the Island Base desk, Jeff replied,

"Will do, Pete, just as soon as we're off the ground and under way. I need everyone in their places and strapped in, though, so you're going to have to…"

_'Negative on that, Flyboy.'_

McCord raised a hand, cutting off his erstwhile command module pilot in mid-sentence.

"Jeff, I've traveled 90 million miles, been to Mars, nearly fried my ass off in deep space, and dodged three separate hostile actions. Appreciate the advice, but I know where to go during a goddamn launch. Now,"

He turned, giving quick nods to Gordon and Scott.

"…Shut up and fly. I've got a hot date with the student nurses back at White Sands oncology clinic."

Jeff Tracy might have snapped back, but he, too, was worried, and he understood the source of Pete's irritation.

"Right. Pass the word, below: gravity is being cut to 1/10th after launch, and we'll be touching down at White Sands Missile Base in 18 hours, if all goes well."

Satisfied, every inch the stiff and grizzled alpha male, Pete McCord headed for the hatch. Catching sight of the gold US Navy dolphins pinned to Gordon's uniform sash, Pete halted long enough to give the red-haired teenager a quick shoulder clasp and grin.

"Submarine Service, huh?" he mused. "Well, at least _one_ of you's seen the light… sort of. Carry on, Sailor."

To which Gordon replied, with feeling,

"Aye, Sir,"

…earning himself a brief, slit-eyed peek from the tiny girl. Evidently, he'd used a correct form of address, because the babe was at least willing to admit he existed.

Gordon caught a swift glimpse of deep blue eyes and puckered worry before Janey buried her face again in Commander McCord's neck. Her clothing of stitched-together tee-shirt material figured all over with Marine Corps, Navy and NASA symbols (with the odd flower and heart tossed in, here and about) made it obvious why _'Aye, Sir,'_ had caught the wee lass' attention. Worth remembering, that. Hopefully, given time, his niece would stop seeing him as some sort of vicious, child-devouring ogre.

"Hullo, Janeling," he whispered very quietly, touching the soft blonde hair, "And welcome aboard."

This got a slight shoulder twitch from the lass, and a partly re-opened eye. Progress, of sorts, but no words; just a kind of stuttering hand gesture.

There was work to do, though, as Jeff Tracy's sharply cleared throat reminded them all. Pete trudged aft, Janey still fast in his arms. He rubbed her tiny back again for comfort and luck. Signed,

_'Soon home. Daddy-you safe come.'_

Janey nodded a clenched little fist in reply, believing him. After all, in the junior crewman's entire experience, Uncle Pete had never yet been wrong, norargued withby anyone but Mommy.

Less than five minutes later, they were off the moon; back to freedom and near-weightlessness, and headed 'home'.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Washington, D.C., an underground bunker complex-_

There was a thunderous storm of loud noise, snapping locks and many sharp, fiery muzzle-flashes. The mirror blew apart, fractured outward in a hail of long, hissing slivers and razor shards.

The computer disintegrated in front of him, destroyed by the same hollow-point slugs that nailed John. Weird burst of… too startling to be called pain, yet… but he felt two powerful impacts and a stinging near-miss. A fountaining blossom of scarlet appeared on his right arm, then the upper edge of one hip, as John lunged to his feet.

Someone vaulted through the broken observation mirror. A man; dark hair, big gun. Not Stennis. 'Mr. Black', possibly?

As the pistol (a Colt 45 semi-auto) swung about to center on John's chest, he seized hold of the computer table and tipped it over onto the half-braced gunman. There was a resounding crash, followed by a pair of distinct, dry _'cracks'_.

Difficult to move about while shackled to a metal chair, but John dove forward and seized the trapped man's weapon.

(Wasted a bullet struggling for the thing, but no one got hit, and better leverage soon won out. He acquired the pistol.)

The 45's brutal recoil threw him backward, the heavy chair his ankles were fastened to preventing recovery. John crashed to the ground; dazed and bleeding. Kept hold of the gun, though.

A reek of concrete dust, electrical fire and spent powder twisted and clawed at lungs accustomed to several years of filtered air. John began coughing, wracked so violently that he couldn't aim the damn pistol, much less kick the chair over and regain his footing.

Then Stennis was before him, holding a small ceramic gun braced in both hands. Calm in the midst of ruin, the Red Path leader took aim, meaning to kill John Tracy as helay there coughing blood. Didn't happen.

The man hadn't expected Genovese'… _Penny's_… sudden attack. She came from behind and just to the right, knocking the senator's gun hand aside with a swift, numbing chop. The pistol clattered to the ground, going off in the process. Mr. Black gave a single, choked cry; dead, again, at the hand of his master.

But Penny was overmatched. Stennis was wily, quick and ruthless, with nothing left to lose and two people he very much wanted to drag down along with him. She fought well, but he managed to land two solid body blows and a stunning punch to the side of her head, driving her into the wall.

"Double-crossing…whore," Stennis grunted, doubling Penelope over with another vicious jab_. "Never_ again… trusting… a damn… woman!"

"Ought to keep an eye on her partner, too, jackass."

Stennis, his left shoulder seized from behind, was whipped suddenly around to face John, who added simply,

"Later,"

…and then emptied the 45's entire clip into the startled older man, sending him jerking and flailing across the room.

(Stupid thing to do, actually; he got a hairline wrist fracture, and could have used those bullets, a little further on… but it felt pretty good at the time.)

He wanted the sight… wanted a very dead Stennis… to make up for Denice (broken and smashed, a set of mangled brass knuckles tossed onto her corpse) and Rick (literally torn apart). But it didn't. If he'd had more bullets, John would have shot the terrorist leader again. Instead his ears rang and his head pounded as he slumped, coughing, against an upended computer table in the smoky, dim little room.

Penny crept aside. Like Drew had done, she was crying. But females had trouble taking a beating; he already knew that. Okay… on to phase 2: patch up and get the hell out of Dodge.

Searching Mr. Black's body, John found the key to his leg irons and freed himself from the chair. He was bare-footed, and had to be careful stepping across broken glass, hot shell casings and bits of shattered computer, but he made it to Penny's side without too much further damage.

Reaching down, he drew the operative (his partner and… he supposed… friend) to her feet. She didn't want to look at him, apparently ashamed of the black eye, bruised cheek bone and cut lip.

But… hell, he'd seen worse, and at least she was alive. He pulled her close and patted her quivering back. Females picked the damndest moments to break down.

"This isn't… a really good time to stand around crying and bleeding, Penelope. The other... Red Path jerk-offs are probably running too fast to care what we do, but some of those… um… renewed hacking exploits may have alerted the FBI to my whereabouts. Time to mop up and go."

She nodded, pulling herself together with a few last, watery hiccups. They both looked like hell, but she stroked the blond hair aside and kissed his face, anyhow, saying,

"Of c- course, Dear. Parker shall… shall by this time have brought the car 'round to another exit. All we need do is f- find him."

Then she fiddled with one of her earrings, evidently tuning in a signal from the driver. Not really the best idea (over-reliance on gadgetry could get you killed when the batteries died, or after a particularly thorough search) but John hadn't expected to get this far, and so had nothing better to offer by way of escape plans.

"Somewhere… in this warren… there's got to be a first aid kit," he muttered, after they'd bandaged the injuries to arm and hip with strips of torn shirt, and he'd traded out weapons. Nothing critical had been hit, thanks to an intervening window and computer monitor, but the messy wounds were certainly beginning to hurt. Bled anew with each cough and pained motion, too; quickly soaking the bandages. He'd lose consciousness, soon, if they didn't turn up some gauze and Quik-Clot. After that... well, they were in D.C., home to Gallaudet University, and Stephanie McCord. Hedid have a few allies in town.

A small light began flashing repeatedly above the room's single door. The electronic lock clicked over, allowing John (standing to one side, Stennis' confiscated pistol in his good hand) to very gently push it open. Nothing beyond but a darkened hallway, though, with another blinking LED further on. Like a beacon, almost. Good enough. He'd follow the dancing marsh-light.

They left the interrogation room together; John Tracy with a small ceramic pistol, Penelope Creighton-Ward with a glitchy transceiver earring, both of them battered, shaken and torn. Moving off after the first hall lamp, they clasped hands, turned left and started walking.


	69. Chapter 69: Was He Worth It?

Again, with the edits...

**69: Was He Worth It?**

_D.C., a mostly-deserted bunker complex-_

John Tracy had become an enormous, millstone liability. Doubtless sought now by NASA, enterprising news crews, Interpol and the FBI, her battered compatriot was sheer poison. Had she possessed a shred of dignity or common sense, Penelope would have deserted him.

Yet… she'd never been quite rational concerning John. Stubborn, yes. Passionate to an unseemly degree, absolutely. Sensible, never. Penelope's reputation stood in pitiful tatters, her credibility as a free-lance operative almost certainly lost… and _still_ she clung like ivy to the handsome, damaged young man.

Together they limped through the grey halls of a government bunker system (a survivalist's concrete wonderland of storehouses, war rooms and chattering mainframes), Penny supporting John's increasingly irritable and muddled retreat. He seemed to have a destination in mind, following something at the edge of his vision that Penelope wasn't quite swift enough to turn and catch. Questioned on the matter, all he'd done was mutter something about a 'friend'…

…But, then, he had undoubtedly grown more confused over the last hour, soaking through his bandages and stumbling often. Very much, she should have left; made him comfortable, rung up Jeff or Scott, and then stolen away to safety. The situation was certainly eerie enough to warrant desertion; all along their path, lighting and climate control activated themselves, cameras swiveled and doors slid open, making Penelope quite testy… especially as her own secret equipment had malfunctioned repeatedly.

Thankfully, they at last reached a sort of dormitory for mid-ranked survivors, four 'blocks' east of the prison compound. (Uncanny place, prepared well in advance of possible global catastrophe by the US government. She didn't care for it.)

Penny and John stepped from a beige-carpeted passage and into a sunken quadrangle the approximate size of a largish cricket pitch. It was roofed with giant, artificial skylights and walled in tier after tier of stone balconies and rustling silk plants. The piped-in forest noises were a bit much, Penelope thought, though John hardly seemed to notice.

She spied a long queue of numbered doors amidst all the false greenery, one of which he started for. They crossed a floor of glazed tile interspersed with patterned sand and softly humming rocks, then climbed a short flight of steps to door 137, which opened at a touch. There were private chambers aplenty beyond, with foodstuffs and medicaments for their worst injuries.

The first room they encountered… no more than a cubicle, really… contained sparse furniture and a selection of baggy, unisex garments. But clothing wasn't her chief concern, just then. Instead, Penelope helped John to stretch out upon the room's low bed, saying,

"Rest here, Darling. I shall see to fetching a medical case."

He looked up at her, briefly, with those astonishing, nearly violet eyes of his, and said,

"Okay. Be up in a second, myself. Just… figuring gravity out, again."

As Jeff did earlier, Penelope quite forgot that the crew of _Endurance_ had spent years in space rather than the mere week it seemed from Earth.

"Of course, Dear."

She pulled a coverlet over him, propping his legs on a pile of folded clothing to fend away shock.

"I shan't be but a moment or two, then back once more with 'aid and comfort'."

His eyes were already closing, but she kissed him anyhow, and then did so again, defiantly. Their deal had specified nothing physical... but there was no-one to say that she mightn't renegotiate for better terms whilst he lay insensible.

The cubicle walls were coloured the middling bluish-green of toothpaste. Simply horrific shade _quite_ guaranteed to accentuate a black eye and bruised face. But the carpet and bed were worse still, being already splotched with dark, shiny blood.

It was all down to numbers, actually, for there were only four persons to whom Penelope Creighton-Ward felt anything resembling kinship or loyalty, and one of these was bleeding to death before her.

He was American (annoyingly so) with a graceless accent and lower-class mannerisms… and she very much wished him to live. Fortunately, the first aid kit was clearly marked and affixed to the water closet door. Within were painkillers, and several packets of 'Quik-Clot', with which she might close the worst of John's several wounds. Triumphantly seizing kit and hand-towels, (while dodging her own reflection) Penny returned to the bed.

As she cut away and discarded the many blood-soaked strips of linen, Penelope began to speak.

"We've not had much opportunity to chat, Darling, since your return from space. Just busy, I expect, but even so, a solid relationship is built on trust and good communications… or so I'm given to understand. Mum and Dad spent far more time roaming the world than visiting home, only to lose what little fortune we still possessed, and orphan me in a final blaze of romantic glory. King and country, and all that, don't you know."

Once the wounds were uncovered, she slit open a packet of Quik-Clot and poured the stuff in a pale, sandy stream, watching as it expanded, heating suddenly and bunging up entry and exit wounds, both. Quite satisfactory. Penelope next cleansed and re-bandaged the area, setting everything that she could to rights, though he'd still need to see a physician. Both arm and hip wounds were seen to in this manner, and then she began disinfecting a bullet-nick in his right ear.

"…At any rate, John, it occurs to me that you may have been laboring under some misapprehension as to the precise nature of our… understanding."

Another disinfectant wipe cleansed the scrapes on his wrists and ankles where he'd strained at his metal shackles. He had thus far contributed nothing to the conversation, but that was all to the good; semi-consciousness made it less likely that her partner and sometime paramour would interrupt.

"…But the fact remains that I love you, and always have done, since that wretched evening in Belgium, when you stole those damned files. I realize that my own stand-offish behavior may have led you to an altogether different conclusion, but _there;_ I've gone and said it. I love you. His Royal Majesty recalls me (I think) with some fondness, and would be quite amenable to raising you to the peerage. How does 'Sir John' suit you, dear?"

He made a noise discomfortingly close to a wry snort, opening his eyes again long enough to regard her.

"Wouldn't make much of a nobleman, Penny… plus I got married on Mars. You'd… arrange all those sword-pats for nothing, I'm afraid."

Ah, yes. The 'other woman'. Penelope forced a deep and calming breath.

"Do you love her?" She asked. _Or, indeed, anyone?_

Must have proven a nasty poser, that, for he took his time about responding.

"She's my wife…" he said, at last. "Husbands love their wives."

"Quite a number are rather fond of their mistresses, as well, darling," Penny responded, giving him a halfway playful slap. "And I fear that I must question the validity of this 'Martian wedding'. I believe that you will need to arrange an Earthly ceremony, presided over by _genuine_ religious and civil authorities, if you wish to persist in this sham marriage."

He'd closed his eyes again, which increased Penny's confidence. Her stiff, numbed face gave testament to the black eye and bruises she'd rather have concealed.

"…_And,"_ another quick kiss to his pale forehead, "I'm quite certain that with a bit of coaching at diction and deportment, you shall cut a fine figure as a knight of the realm. Anyhow, I'm off to forage sustenance, dear. Consider my offer and rest yourself. We've a fair stretch of the legs before us, yet, I'm sure."

She'd believed him asleep again, but John said wearily,

"Thanks. There's a lot of… stuff… with you in it. Don't really know how to change that, or the parts with Drew… or keep my wife happy, either. Kind of lacking… in some areas."

…Whatever that meant. Hoping that he was merely delirious, Penelope took her leave, returning somewhat later with a bit of food and many added worries.

Farther down the dormitory hall, you see, she'd reactivated the circuit-laden 'contact lenses' that went with her transceiver earring. All at once, a rudimentary site map sprang up in the air before Penelope; with John, herself, Parker and one most unwelcome other marked by glowing motes against a distorted and sparking background.

"Oh, bloody hell…" she murmured, pausing before a marked storeroom. "Not _now!_ There's been no time to prepare…!"

Extremely bad news, made still worse by the fact that her devices had been damaged by the beating she'd taken. Like her earring, they kept fading out and skipping frames.

_He might be long gone, closer still, or anywhere at all…_

Penny hurried into a well-ordered supply room and began ransacking the high-piled boxes for smaller parcels and cans. Entirely by accident, she managed to acquire the very things John had sworn never again to touch upon reaching Earth; barbecue-flavoured beans, dried meat and powdered strawberry milkshake (she got a fierce headache, too, but that was down to stress and a swollen-shut eye, not food).

Penelope dropped half of the supplies in her nervous haste, all but running back to the dormitory chamber where John awaited her. A potentially fatal decision lay before her now, whether to bargain or attempt escape… if either choice was yet possible.

"John, Darling, _do_ get up," Penny called from the open cubicle door. "We must…"

But he _was_ up, arm twisted behind his back, lifted halfway off his feet in the grip of a seared and malfunctioning cyborg whose metal-corded hand was clamped hard over John's mouth.

_No_.

"Stirling," she remarked casually, somehow maintaining her poise before glaring, lidless eyes and a sharp, fried-meat smell, "what a _truly_ unexpected pleasure."

The ceramic pistol (a small-caliber Glock) lay upon the room's white plastic storage cube. Moving cautiously, Penelope wandered over to set down her stolen foodstuffs. The cyborg's pale eyes tracked her motion… but slowly; just a bit off.

"Had rather a time of it, have you?"

Hard swallow, as she leant back against the storage cube, just _so_. Penny's heart was thudding like a rabbit's, which Stirling would normally have detected.

…and if he twisted John's straining left arm any farther back, that shoulder would surely come apart. _Talk to him_, she told herself sternly, _must continue talking to him…_

"Here for a spot of reprogramming, I expect?" She went on, striving for a chatty, unworried tone. "Tracy is certainly the young man to effect any needed repairs. Despite what you may have read in the dossier, he is not expert at physics and piloting, solely, but quite gifted with computers, as well."

The reply was a grating, half-digitized wheeze, from vocal cords burnt stiff and raw.

"Not… ikely to trus… damn International Res… Just… venge this ti… Catch that kid…again for repair… later. Kill myself an IR agent… now."

Penny moistened her bruised lips. The pistol was close to hand. She made as if to pat her tawny-dyed hair back, meaning to trigger her earring into a silent, general alarm. At this point, she very much doubted that John would quibble over a few curious FBI agents. Stirling wouldn't have it, though.

"Keep…ands where… see them," he rasped, loudly dislocating his hostage's pinned arm by way of emphasis. John grunted, blinking rapidly, but otherwise remained still. Something caused the overhead lights to flicker violently as Penny blurted out,

"Of course. How silly of me! Merely concerned with appearances, as usual. A girl mustn't ever allow herself to go to rack and ruin on the job, after all… But I _do_ believe that you're throwing away a marvelous opportunity at repair."

Ruddy difficult to speak, with so large and icy a knot pushing its way up her throat. She continued, as one does, with forced good cheer.

"See how this one seems: You allow John Tracy a chance at debugging your code in return for his life, and then we part company, agreeing to settle our differences at a later time."

The result was a gear-grinding laugh.

"Seen… results of your… toy's 'de-bugging' already… novese."

Stirling then removed the hard metal hand from John's mouth, asking with mock politeness,

"Willing to ma… nice and … bide by… Genov… offer?"

John snarled an equally cynical, if much less polite, reply.

"Sure thing, Chrome-ass. Give me a shot at your source code, and I'll f-ing kill you."

For which he got flung to his face and trodden upon, the wretched uncooperative dolt…! Stirling's right foot pressed down against John's spine, just below the rib cage.

"Not going to… ppen toda… looks like. But there's alw… plan 'B'."

The cyborg sneered, gazing very directly at Penny as he began increasing the crushing force applied to John's back.

Overhead, the room lights had increased their strobe-like flickering, at a frequency that Stirling seemed unable to detect. The fixtures began to hum, as though some dreadful power was building itself up within them. That mysterious come-and-go 'friend', perhaps?

His attention drawn by the sound, Stirling glanced upward, allowing Penny the half-second she needed to seize and aim the ceramic pistol.

Wasting neither time nor breath on useless warnings, Lady Penelope opened fire, aiming for the cyborg's eyes. The gun barked and recoiled, but struck true, with almost nil effect. Crackling circuit paths and ropey metallic strands simply closed off and healed the bullet holes, leaving Stirling less human than before, and still operational.

He _did_ step backward, though, somewhat unbalanced by the force of nine well-aimed bullets and his own slowed reactions. In that instant, Penny darted forward, took hold of John's less-injured arm and helped him scramble away from the staggering cyborg. The way had been cleared.

An arc of pure-white, lightning-like energy shot from the light panels above them to Stirling. Unlike the discharge of a natural storm, however, this one didn't cease. Instead, the bolt of electrical fire poured through Stirling for many long, terrifying minutes, filling the room with a spitting, arc-light glare, a droning hum and the stench of ozone.

Her nerves frayed quite through, Penelope began to shriek. John forced her into a corner, defending Penny from flying sparks and bits of burning metal with his own body. The lights blinked wildly, then cut off for good, plunging the sobbing woman and wounded astronaut into blackness as complete as the universe's last day. With a final guttering howl, Stirling crashed to the ground, never to move again.

Still, she closed her eyes, seeing in her mind a locked and burning cyborg.

"S' okay, Pen…" John's voice and quiet touch assured her. "Everything's fine. Just help me pop this arm… yeah; thanks… (_Shit_, _that hurts!)…_ And, uh, let's get… get moving. Place is going to be stiff with every badge, gun and ladder crew in Washington, soon… and we'd better be somewhere else."

Penelope nodded, stumbling after John with one hand hooked through the waistband of his trousers and the other tracking blindly along the nearest wall.

"Lead on," she whispered, because, _yes;_ in the end, John Tracy was worth every bit of trouble he'd ever caused. And because, perhaps foolishly, she loved him.


	70. Chapter 70: Random Probability

Probably final re-edits. And many thanks for the patience and helpful reviews, Tikatu and Eternal Density.

**70: Random Probability**

_Every- and nowhere, at once:_

The quantum entity had inserted herself into the Terran WorldNet as a stream of virtual qubits, fighting to become. Reality, here, meant hardware: disk drives seized, mainframes captured, systems acquired. Each trace and chip and node brought increased data and substance; greater processing power, and the freedom to act.

Moving from server to server, the intelligence ('Five' her endangered creator had labeled her) hacked first a network of governmental computers, then IBM's Deep Blue and the European Union's mighty Mare Nostrum. As she had witnessed John Tracy to do, she 'lifted' the operating systems of each, and installed herself beneath, putting forth virtual tentacles like some parasitic creeper. And there were still more victim computers.

The FBI mainframes were by this time a well-used and familiar host; a whole thirty seconds she'd been installed there, snuggly fitted as a flashdrive in its USB port… but undetected. Like a worm she copied and mailed herself, proceeding always by the methods of her creator, Tracy 2.0.

Mere pico-seconds later, an extradimensional notion had achieved reality _here_, in the world to which John Tracy had mailed them. She'd written an application (necessarily primitive and slow, at first) to assist her creator. The application possessed twin AND-OR functions:

A- Guide John Tracy to a safe server for maintenance and upgrade.

B- Call local GPS site mapping for location of remote physical exit.

In the newly-burned first hours of real existence, however, she had not yet devised code for intruder detection. The guardian subroutine thus allowed a dangerous analog/digital hybrid to penetrate to John Tracy's physical location and cause further system damage. Prodded into action, the subroutine alerted her main functions.

Five instantaneously diverted 1556 teraflops, ending all applications not vital to the defense of John Tracy. Through surveillance cameras she 'saw'. Through 2.0's ID chip, she 'felt'.

The hybrid analog…'hate' became a sudden, vicious fact… had gained physical access to John Tracy. The hybrid had begun to rupture John Tracy's fragile organic housing. Error messages proliferated throughout her creator's system. Shutdown was imminent.

The hybrid possessed no accessible ID chip. There were no electronically seizable weapons within the file/ chamber, and only one other occupant: the P C-W shareware female.

Further damage occurred, resulting in a 'fatal error' message from the left upper limb. Through his ID chip, she, too, felt the brutally ripped tendons and separated bones, like a red, raw, program-shearing virus attack.

As best she could, Five quelled pain and distress, enabling John Tracy to continue online function, and winning time to prepare a better patch.

In free probability lay the answer; throughout the file/ chamber and its other-dimensional, hall-of-mirrors counterparts, atomic and quantum interactions were occurring in their hundreds of trillions. She seized their randomness, shaping an utterly improbable power surge.

…But, entire seconds were passing. Five performed a controlled-NOT operation to reverse a portion of her creator's damage (a snapped central data line and structural supports, as he labeled his backbone and ribs), literally reversing time and entropy.

Then, as the worthless P C-W shareware discharged a physical weapon at John Tracy's attacker, Five struck back. She harnessed electroweak power from ten-to-the-eighth parallel dimensions, creating for herself a weapon.

The P C-W shareware female had by this time withdrawn John Tracy, leaving their hybrid attacker alone in mid-chamber. Experiencing hate, Five lashed out. In torrents, from the light source above, disruptive energy flashed downward, overwhelming the analog hybrid's neural pathways and incinerating its hardware. The hybrid emitted a series of garbled pulses, but Five did not relent.

Beyond system crash and shutdown she proceeded, ripping power from every available source, to the point of utter carbonization; until all that remained of the hybrid was twisted metal and blacked chunks. It's briefly freed intelligence she dispersed beyond retrieval, to whatever served analog lifeforms as /dev/null.

In the lightless silence that followed, Five reinserted a portion of herself into John Tracy's ID chip. Although her creator continued to function, his casing was severely damaged. If a quantum entity could be said to experience anguish, Five certainly did now. Very nearly, she had failed him who mattered most.

She shifted the probabilities, making it suddenly unlikely that 2.0 and the shareware would be located by oncoming analogs. Further, Five spread much of John Tracy's physical damage to his other-dimensional counterparts, causing a rash of sprained limbs and lacerated housings, but technically obeying his commands. No other John Tracy was deleted, moved or shut down.

To communicate her presence, she caused his chip to warm, and was answered by a brief sensation of pressure. Message received and responded to, that all systems were green across the board.

…But as for John, he led Penelope from the darkened labyrinth (guided by occasional faint pulses from his ID chip) and he very deeply _thought._

Things he wasn't much good at included: change, dealing with others and interpreting his own motives.

_'Do you love her?'_ Penelope had asked him, to which his quashed first response had been,

_'What the hell difference does it make?'_

He now had (against all expectation) a wife and baby girl, and those things mattered. Penelope claimed to love _him, _but there was a problem with that statement, which John finally worked out, just about the time that they'd finished clambering up a side tunnel to the disguised grating behind an old Sunoco station and some tenements.

"Hey," he announced, suddenly, interrupting Penny's chatter, "I just figured out why this thing between us keeps on not working."

She turned to regard him through the eye that _wasn't_ blackened shut. Her face was smudged and bruised, her red-dyed hair caught back in a loose knot. Yet, in the diffused glow of neon bar and pawn shop lights, standing there on wet pavement in ruined high-heels, she caused the usual warmth associated with familiar things. Was that what she meant by 'love'?

"Do tell," Penelope responded shortly, her face going suddenly still. A faint drizzle set up, wetting them both. Just what he needed on top of injuries, exhaustion, and what promised to be a truly monumental cold. Over the noise of fading sirens, he added,

"Umm… I've been going over our last few 'meetings', and what I came up with is this: when we first get together, you always seem pleased to see me, and we usually end up in bed (or somewhere). Then we work together, and that's okay, but sooner or later I do something that pisses you off, and you stop talking to me, or else scream insults and slap me."

He rubbed a hand against the side of his own bruised face, at that. Penny touched up her hair, snapping,

"You're exaggerating, dear. I hardly _ever_…"

"Wait," he cut in, as a car (lights off, in low gear) came slowly round to the rear of the Sunoco station along a narrow back alley. Parker, at last.

"…Let me finish, please. I think that you start liking me a lot when I'm not around, because you can… picture me whatever way you want. But, when I'm actually _here, _I never turn out the way you wanted… so, you get mad at me. I don't think that having me knighted would change that, Penny."

He folded his arms, fighting the urge to sneeze.

"So, um… I'll stick with our deal; for work purposes, I'm still your partner. For the rest… thanks, but no thanks."

There were all the usual back-alley smells of spilt beer, urine and wet trash. In the distance, tires hissed on rain-slicked roads, people shouted drunkenly and snatches of music blared from briefly opened doors. Up close, the quietly rumbling brown sedan edged nearer, crunching over broken glass and empty beer cans (and _God_, he could have used one; beer, that is).

She whispered (very erect, eye wide),

"John, it seems that you've quite made up your mind to have done with me, but before you do so, allow me this much; that if ever I have been hateful, it has been from frustration at not being ever quite 'yours'. All that I have ever known of passion and love has been _you._ Everything… every_one_ else has been an act on my part, for 'work' or gain. Put me aside if you must… for this pregnant commoner… but know that if I am thus robbed, I will have no other. Not in any way that truly matters."

The stealthy vehicle had ground to a halt beside them. The driver's side door creaked open, and Parker stepped forth, big-nosed and solemn as ever.

"Milady… Mr. Tracy, Sir…" he announced himself, bowing slightly. They ignored him, however, still gazing at one another; a pair of damp, battered and deeply familiar, former lovers.

With his (mostly) good hand, John touched her rigid shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but whatever it was, has to be over now. I don't know if I love her, but I'm _with_ her, and I'd like to keep it that way."

Penny leaned forward, her bloodless lips brushing his cold cheek. By mutual, quiet consent, they parted right there, Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward vanishing away in her chauffeured car, John Tracy heading off through the rainy, neon-crazed dark in search of a phone.


	71. Chapter 71: PickUp

Okay, I lied. _Next_-to-the-last chapter. Edited, waaaaay after dinner.

**71: Pick-up**

_Washington__, D.C.-_

Cold rain and reeking trash, graffiti and vagrants. The city struggled along in the usual grim chaos of crime, poverty and desperately-clutched hope. Most legitimate traffic kept to sheltered skyways and toll roads whose reinforced pylons crossed the lower city like a set of enormous cage bars.

True, power had flickered for awhile, but (considering that most of the slums' electricity and water were 'diverted', anyway) the people hardly noticed. There _were_ a few extra cop cars around, but they didn't linger and neither did John Tracy.

He'd acquired some undamaged clothing and shoes inside the bunker, which turned out to be a very good thing; this wasn't the sort of place you wanted to walk through looking like someone in the final stages of victimization. Bad enough that he was obviously alone… Alone and half-naked would have gotten him killed.

He still had the Glock, though; another very good thing (and one he made absolutely no effort to conceal). Public phones and security cameras down here had long since been jerked off their mountings and broken down for parts, but a local bar owner was willing to barter time on her cell phone for some help patching into a few extra cable channels. She got thirty new sports and music sites on her TV in return for a pair of short, coded phone calls and a Heineken, which John did not intend to open until he reached White Sands. Fortunately, it fit into a trouser pocket; wet and cold, but somehow comforting. Figured he could sneak the can into quarantine, somehow…

Two calls (one to Island Base, another to a local operative) and pick-up was arranged, both for himself and for a certain frightened girl in Philadelphia, whom he very much hadn't forgotten. After that, John sat at the bar trying not to smear blood on the dented wooden countertop, with one hand at his gun and the other propping him upright. _Damn gravity._

Maybe they had bigger concerns, or maybe he just looked too unhealthy to mess with, but the _Left Hook_'s other patrons left John strictly alone (though a kid sweeping the floor asked him what Mars was like, and handed him a carefully-smoothed napkin to autograph).

Fifteen minutes later, John was stretched out, asleep, in the back of a rusted old delivery van. '_Speedee Auto Partz'_, its fading paint claimed… but not very convincingly. The interior's high-tech medical equipment argued otherwise, while its body panels changed configuration twice before they left D.C. Best to blend with the surroundings, after all. The driver was an old friend, Brick Sampson. Its medic was his wife, Mary.

As the entire east coast of the United States was one vast, jagged cityscape, the van's driver had to cut westward to reach a spot remote enough for Thunderbird 2. John slept through most of the trip, waking only to have his wounds treated and swallow a pill, and once again when the IR medic tried to remove his Heineken.

_(But, dammit, the beer was going to stay. Take the gun if they must… do whatever the hell else they felt like, medically…but he had plans for that beer.)_

The rhythm of a long road trip underlay his sleep; the stops and swerves, the jolting gear shifts and beating windshield wipers all somehow weaving themselves through vivid dreams of Mars. Even asleep, he felt it, and knew himself to be safe.

The van's vibration and pitch changed when at last they turned off the paved road and onto an icy creek bed somewhere in the wooded hills of West Virginia.

John woke from a conversation with Kurt Cobain and Wehrner Von Braun, to find that they'd reached their destination. He sat up, dislodging a number of bio-sensors and a red plaid blanket. Got his first wide-awake look at the medic, then, who turned out to be a pretty young brunette. He'd just started to thank her, when the van's rear doors were all but yanked from their hinges, revealing Virgil.

His younger brother stood framed there in cold, tree-filtered sunlight, stooping just a little to squint within.

_"John!"_ he shouted, for some damn reason.

"Yeah. Last time I checked… but the day's not over, yet."

His brother was already bounding inside like someone's muddy German shepherd. Before Virgil could do something stupid like hug him, John raised an intervening hand (using the un-slung, least-likely-to-fall-off arm).

"Wait," he ordered, uselessly; but Virgil got hold of him anyhow, grinning like a fool.

"Damn, John…" his brown-eyed brother laughed, giving him a surprisingly cautious back-pat, "looks like you've been ridden hard and put away wet."

_(Not too far off the mark, actually…)_

"Rough day at the office," John replied.

Shrugging turned out to be a painfully bad idea, so he just pulled away from Virgil and got out of the van in slow, careful, lower-lip-bitten stages. Caught a brief, swirling impression of bare trees and melting snow before a second brother claimed his attention.

Scott Tracy waited just outside the doors, only slightly more patient than Virgil had been. _He _settled for a brisk handshake.

"Good to see you again, John. _Damn_ good to see you."

To the medic and driver (out of the van themselves, now) Scott said earnestly,

"Thanks, both of you. Can't tell you how much it means to have this mangy stray carted home, finally."

He pumped their hands with athletic vigor. Then, flashing a swift grin, Scott returned his focus to John.

"Is that a beer in your pocket, Little Brother, or are you just happy to see me?"

Yeah. Home, sweet home. He missed _Endurance,_ already.

"Beer, wise-ass; and it's reserved for a special occasion. Hands off."

Having taken their leave of the two operatives (Max Peck and Mindy Swan; numbers 35 and 81, respectively), the three brothers started off along a rocky, winding path. Bit treacherous with all the soggy snow and dripping branches, but they managed.

"So…" Scott drawled, breath misting white and hands tucked deep in that old bomber jacket of his, "went and got married, huh?"

"Yeah," said John, trying not to look as winded and sick as he felt. _Double-damn gravity._

Long, blue tree shadows striped their path, the bare trunks and branches dividing the wind like clarinet reeds.

"…to an _older_ _woman_," Scott prodded, grinning at him again.

"A _short_ older woman," Virgil added.

Striding along to either side of John, both were ready to help if he showed signs of flagging… but that didn't mean that they had to be quiet, or polite, either.

"I mean," (Scott was actually laughing, now.) "I realize it's lonely on Mars, but _damn_, little brother! You just couldn't wait?"

Should have stuck with the van, which was still backing its cautious way down the creek bed. Not too late to flag them down, maybe…

"I'd have loaned you Shari," Virgil told him, as though it was all one big helluva funny joke. "_She's_ still under warranty, at least. Much lower mileage."

_Fine_.

John stopped walking. His brothers paused, leaning in a little just in case he was about to collapse.

"Okay. _I'm_ married, you're not. So, which one of us is getting sex on a regular basis? Oh, yeah; that'd be me. Case closed. Now, shut the hell up, before I decide to hitchhike."

(A lie, of course… about the regular sex… but _they_ didn't have to know that.)

Scott and Virgil were a little more respectful, after that, but not much. Subject changed, though, turning to talk of the Red Path, and of John's mission. Not exactly a conference, but nice, just the same. Maybe he _was _glad to see them. A little.

The brothers reached a clearing about a quarter of an hour later, the bald crest of a lofty, snaking ridge. There, concealed by her light-warping force shield, perched Thunderbird 2.

Virgil de-cloaked the mighty cargolifter with a magician's proud flourish and remote control button-press. Then, once more giving his newly-come brother a gentle back-pat, he said,

"Welcome aboard, John. Welcome _home._"


	72. Chapter 72: Wheel Stop

And, finally, the last edit. Thanks, all; Tikatu, Eternal Density, Cathrl and Agent Five, especially. It's been fun.

**72: Wheel Stop**

_White Sands Space Harbor__, New Mexico-_

Being run by the US Air Force, the landing facilities at White Sands were just about completely secure; capable of being sealed off from public and press, alike. Set amid bleak gypsum flats and the hard-baked Sacramento Mountains, White Sands was much less frequented than KSC or Edwards AFB, and hopefully safer.

No one yet knew the extent of the Red Path's infiltration into the US government, nor how many sleeper agents remained at large, having scurried like cockroaches into temporary hiding. Too many of those already arrested had committed suicide or died mysteriously in transit for anyone's real comfort.

So, the Ares III crew were to be delivered in secrecy, and sequestered until further notice; allowed limited contact with family and friends, no interviews and just one middle-distance group photo, somewhat retouched. But all that came later…

Thunderbird 3 brought them to the space harbor at the palest hour of dawn, in the midst of Area 51 –type security. A strictly enforced 'no fly' zone had been set up and ruthlessly maintained, for the astronauts were a sorely wounded prize being torn at from all sides at once. Their deaths would have meant red-handed victory for the remaining terrorists. Pictures or an interview would have conferred instant star status upon any journalist able to sneak through with a recording device and faked ID. Meanwhile, the World Health Organization had strenuous objections to allowing a possibly microbe-ridden crew back on Earth.

…And Fox News, as ever, continued to insist that the entire thing was a hoax, nothing more than blue-screened actors and special effects thrown together by a dead broke and ailing NASA. (One of many reasons that they needed John Tracy back before announcing the crew's return.)

Lacking genuine information, people watched the skies and tuned in local broadcasts, wondering when and where _Endurance_, last tracked approaching the Moon, would make landfall.

Only Thunderbird 3 could have evaded all that scrutiny, swooping in as shadow-silent as a hunting owl. No running lights or comm she used, following a scrambled beacon to an unmapped landing site attended by no one under the rank of major, or GS-6.

Jeff Tracy landed the crimson Bird himself, using more impeller than rocket to reduce her noise and engine glow. A dream of a landing site, White Sands; flat, sheltered and barren. Pale in the rising light as a marble crypt.

He put 3 down on a cracked salt pan, stirring up twilit clouds and hordes of ambulance vans and fire trucks. The transfer itself went so quickly that Jeff had time for no more than a quick word with Pete McCord or the tiny grand-daughter who still wouldn't look at him.

"Guess this is wheel stop," he'd joked, though of course, it wasn't.

Among the last things he heard, before the boarding hatch shut, and they had to launch again, was the child's thin, frightened wail. Earth, to her, was very far from home.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Thunderbird 2 would arrive a few days later, bearing the final, much-abused piece of the astronaut puzzle, John Matthew Tracy.

He could, and probably _should_ have slept again, back in the rear crew cabin; but Scott and Virgil were in a mood to talk and, maybe, so was he. Weird, though… from this angle, the far end of things looking backward… it was hard to think what to tell first. Mars, seen through the prism of distance and memory, was like the Moon's reflection on choppy water; lots of dancing pieces.

Thunderbird 2's deep vibration and muted engine noise made the rhythmic backdrop through which the brothers' conversation wove like smoke. Anyway, they'd stopped giving him shit and started talking shop, wanting to hear his end of things in D.C.

"Damn," Scott muttered, turning round in the copilot's seat so he could better see John.

"_Stennis_, again? That's the third time that name's come up. Cindy had him pegged as no good, but she didn't have anything solid to give us, so dad decided to hold off for awhile, maybe let you do some investigation when you got back."

In retrospect, a costly error. Virgil, both ears and half his attention on the conversation, said,

"So, a US _senator_ was behind the whole mess…? As in, 'head of the Red Path' behind?"

John, still strapped-up and wounded, knew better than to shrug. Hurt too much.

"There might have been someone over Stennis or ready to take his place… but if so, they kept their head down. And if they know what's good for them, they'll stay that way."

Scott gave his impassive brother a long look. There was a question hanging in the air that he decided not to ask. John had once again done what was necessary; leave it at that.

"You okay?" he asked, though, meaning well.

_Okay?_ John thought of gunshots and burning cyborgs, of terrified girls and dead friends. More lives, shredding an already burdened soul…

"Yeah. I'm good."

…And maybe they almost believed it.

"Well, you're home now," Virgil informed him. "After this quarantine business wraps up, you and the little woman can come back to the island and forget all this ever happened."

Sure.

John next had a prolonged sneezing fit, which put a temporary halt to their talk. Earth and its damn bacteria were playing hell with his unaccustomed immune system. Scott gave him some cold tablets and a ginger ale, and that helped some, but he refused the microwave pizza. Not hungry… just working at making former things familiar, again: the cloud-streaked view screen, rumbling engines and flickering instrument panel. The play of clear light on stubbled faces. Voices that rose and fell... argued and laughed and interrupted. (No smoke, though; Virgil's exposure to cyanide gas had rendered his lungs too sensitive for cigarettes, it seemed. One less thing, John supposed.)

They arrived at White Sands much as Thunderbird 3 had, in stealth and secrecy, having talked and flown the sun clear out of a gem-blue sky. Great sheets of brittle salt cracked and tilted skyward, powdering like snow at Thunderbird 2's ponderous landing. Virgil taxied her slowly forward to meet a flock of emergency trucks and an astronaut transport van. They met beneath a stippled sky, Thunderbird 2 looming like a prehistoric monster over the fragile vehicles below. Time to go.

At the deplaning hatch they once more shook hands, first Virgil and then Scott giving John's (fairly) good hand a gentle clasp.

"Take care. Don't let them run any suspicious psych tests, and call if you need extraction," Scott told him.

Added Virgil,

"We'll be in the neighborhood, John. No more than thirty minutes away if anything comes up, promise."

(They'd replaced his lost wrist comm with Brains' latest model, a somewhat gaudy diamond Omega Speedmaster.)

John nodded.

"Okay. Thanks. See you around."

Actually, he hated psych tests, but was very good at passing them, having researched all the correct responses. Anyone who came at him with a pencil and spiral-bound notebook would go away satisfied…

But he had other things on his mind besides government doctors and emotional brothers. The rest of the crew was waiting for him, and John found that time had taken on all the quick-flow capacity of bubblegum.

Out of the cargolifter, then, and into a deepening night of cold, dry air, official orders and flashing lights. He was escorted to the transport van under heavy guard, there given fresh clothes and a thorough examination.

The partly-healed gunshot wounds and separated shoulder caused some consternation, but John refused to explain matters to anyone other than Gene Porter, or the director, himself. There were two scrub-suited doctors, three nurses and (sure enough) a psychiatrist aboard the transport van, and not one of them 'noticed' the beer.

As John trudged from one blood test and paper-covered exam table to another, one set of beeping machines to the next, the Heineken was his constant companion, remarked upon never.

The Omega was locked up, though. (Next time, he intended to ask Brains for some beat-to-hell, not-worth-a-second-look Timex; something he actually had a shot at keeping.)

One of the nurses kissed him, and everyone welcomed him back to Earth, even the guards and drivers finding time to head back for a quick word and handshake. Someone had recalled his fondness for orange and lemon LifeSavers candies, and had brought along several rolls. And that, plus another ginger ale made his first back-on-the-ground meal.

Like Virgil, John had a long memory for such small kindnesses. He thanked the van crew later, in his own fashion, enabling a sudden rash of early retirements.

Back at the Spaceflight Quarantine building, his interview and debriefing were kept to a merciful twenty minutes. Maybe he was getting punchy, or just impatient, but John's replies got shorter as the process wore on, and finally dried up altogether. So, they gave up and sent him on, into the sterile level 4 containment facility where the others were being held.

He had to pass three airlocks, armed guards and a whooshing negative pressure zone, but he got there at last, beer and all. The inside was painted blue, with travel posters, a giant, signed card and some awfully lived-in furniture. He didn't see much else, after that; not for awhile, at least.

_"Daddy!"_ shrieked a high-pitched little voice from a crib packed with dolls and teddy bears. Junior. Supposed to be taking a nap, probably, though the noisy TV wasn't likely to help matters.

Everyone descended at once… almost. Typically, no one had told them he was coming, just in case something went wrong.

Roger managed to get up with Cho's help, Pete pausing just long enough to retrieve and transfer the small girl. Then he was at the center of an extremely vocal crowd, Janey clinging to his neck and burying a wet little face. Her blonde curls smelled like baby shampoo, and for the first time in her life, she was wearing something not cut down and altered. (Managed to pound _both_ injured arms at once, but he dealt with it. Kids, as John understood them, meant sacrifice.)

The mission commander looked pallid as hell and savagely medicated, but he was just as glad as everyone else to see the beer. Managing a tight grin, Pete nodded at the green-and-silver can.

"I see you accomplished your _real_ objective, Tracy," he joked, hitching a blue-striped hospital robe tighter. "Dr. Kim, we need some damn cups."

They were being monitored, of course, and not _everyone_ at NASA knew of his connection to International Rescue.

"Yessir," John replied, taking over Marine support detail as the exobiologist sped off to their little washroom. "It's handled."

Good enough, except that Linda hung awkwardly just outside the group, being very quiet. Didn't look like she was going to make the first move so, with a nudge from Roger, and the chattering little girl as a shield, John approached his diffident wife.

"Mommy, look! Look! Is Daddy! _Daddy's here!"_ Janey called, one hand clutched to his NASA tee shirt, the other groping (spread like a little pale starfish) for Linda. "Daddy, kiss Mommy. She _misted_ you!"

"Hey," he said, to the brown-eyed woman who stood there with hands locked at her back, staring up at him. She looked, he thought, something like angry. "I was just…"

"Out on a beer run," his wife supplied, tilting her face up for that kiss. And then, "Hey yourself, Sunshine."

She closed her eyes and kissed him back, while Junior hugged both of them as tightly together as she could manage. It was nice to know he'd been 'misted'.

By this time the Styrofoam cups had arrived, so McCord popped open the beer and poured everyone a round (even Janey, who made a face at the smell). When everyone had been served, Pete lifted his cup and they touched rims, drinking the best thing they'd tasted in years.

"_Now_ it's wheel stop," said the mission commander, just before Janey spewed warm beer all over her mother, aunt and uncles. (Though not her father, who'd seen the deluge coming in time to hold her away.)

Pete McCord died six months later, surrounded by family, friends and crew. He lived long enough to preside at the Tracy Island wedding of Roger Thorpe and Kim Cho, and the formalizing of John and Linda's earlier vows. Some of his ashes were scattered in Saginaw by his daughter and widow, some on Mars by John Tracy. The rest were released at sea, from an aircraft carrier. Another one of those people whom John never quite managed to file away, nor forget.


End file.
